Double Take
by S. Faith
Summary: First Impressions can be wrong.   This has origins in the movie universe, but it quickly veers off into alternate universe.
1. Chapter 1: We Meet Again

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 5,795  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary: First Impressions can be wrong.  
Disclaimer: Those characters and situations easily identifiable as Helen Fielding's are Helen Fielding's. The others are mine, mine, _mine_.  
Notes: The most meta 'What if?' I've ever done.

* * *

Chapter 1: We Meet Again

It was a double-take that started it all, after catching a glimpse of a woman that looked vaguely familiar to me. I needed that second look to be sure my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. I studied her features, her blonde hair swept up into a twist, her blue eyes and bright smile; I would have been without a pulse not to have noticed her figure, which was very feminine and curvy and sheathed in a little black dress. Yes; despite the differences compared to what I'd seen upon our first meeting back on New Year's Day, it was the same woman, and I felt compelled to approach her, even as I dreaded speaking to her given the insults I'd delivered to her during that first meeting.

I was just about to say her name—Bridget—when at just that moment she turned, glass of wine aloft, definitely surprised to see me.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I've been asking myself the same question. I came with a colleague," I said, looking her over as subtly as I could. "So how are you?" With some irritation I realised I could not keep my eyes from slipping to her bosom; I had certainly not noticed it at our first and last meeting, as it had been too well-camouflaged by upholstery fabric.

"Well, apart from being very disappointed not to see my favourite reindeer jumper again… I'm well."

There was a distinctly teasing edge to her voice, a challenging glint in her eyes, neither of which I was expecting. Instead I had expected cool vitriol, subtle barbs or outright hatred. Not that I would have blamed her; I'd been kind of a jerk and had insulted her quite dreadfully.

At that moment, a plump Caucasian woman with a whiny, nasal voice interrupted us, demanding to be introduced. I gathered from said introduction that this was someone Bridget worked with, and from her own introduction to her colleague she reiterated that I was someone from the town she grew up in, though I still cannot for the life of me recollect her from my youth; not that I was especially close with her parents the Joneses, but I can't even recall their having a daughter.

For her part, she seemed equally surprised to hear my pedigree was as her mother likely promised: that I was a top barrister in the field of human rights law, that people know this of me and respected me for it.

The colleague who had accompanied me to this party, this book launch, was now taking Bridget's co-worker off for a sidebar, but I didn't hear their subsequent conversation because my eyes were then drawn away by a familiar face: my former best mate, Daniel, a man I had no desire to see or talk to. Daniel was the first to look away, ducking into the toilets.

It was only after I returned my attention to my immediate surroundings that I realised while my eyes had been locked with Daniel's, Bridget had wandered away. I looked around myself, but she'd gone. I then caught her threading through the crowd towards the stage, and I could only help but wonder what was about to transpire.

I went into the room with the stage as did others. She took her place in front of the microphone, cleared her throat and began to speak.

To call it a train wreck would have been a kindness. She had obviously not prepared a speech in advance, did not think to switch on the power to amplify her voice. She concluded what she had been invited to say and was rewarded by polite, embarrassed silence. When she was shunted off the stage by someone who was clearly her superior, she disappeared into the crowd.

I thought it might be nice to find her and let her know we weren't all cut out to be public speakers (myself included; my ability to orate in court came from slipping on that particular persona), but my colleague, Natasha, hooked me into a dull conversation with a group of equally pretentious sycophants and a couple of well-known authors.

I saw Bridget again by the drinks table, standing on her own and looking lost in thought, almost vulnerable, probably going over in her head the awful speech she'd just given. It occurred to me that despite not having on much makeup, no jewellery save her silver necklace, and the black satin dress that Natasha had confided to me was not from a couture line she'd ever seen (meaning: it wasn't from one), strangely she was somehow more radiant, more beautiful, than any other woman there.

I cannot say I was not touched. I decided to hell with it, and made a move towards her when I was suddenly intercepted by, once again, Daniel.

I heard him say, presumably referring to her speech, "Jones. Sod 'em all. It was a brilliant post-modernist masterpiece of oratorical fireworks, really."

She made a slight groaning sound. I had to agree with her, in all honesty.

"You're looking very sexy, Jones. I think I'm gonna have to take you out to dinner now whether you like it or not, okay?" I could discern a small smile come from her. "Come on, get your stuff."

With that he whisked her away. It obviously concerned me, given what I knew of Daniel: he was relentless in his pursuit of women and was not satisfied until he slept with the one he'd pursued. When his goal had been achieved, he would drop her like a hot rock. I knew his methods firsthand. It's what he had done to my wife, now ex, devastating my friendship with him in the process.

I was disappointed not to get the chance to renew my own friendship with this supposed childhood friend, one with whom I had allegedly bonded in a paddling pool.

I would also be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit jealous at being thwarted in my efforts. I didn't know what about her interested Daniel; she was definitely not his usual type. I half-wondered if he was doing it because he'd seen something akin to interest light my own eyes.

I was determined to keep myself informed as to what was developing between them. Hurriedly I returned to where Natasha was and pulled her away, asking her to have supper. I knew she'd want to; she had been after me for some time, and while I knew this would send the wrong message, we had arrived to the party together (I didn't want to strand her there) and bringing someone with me to the restaurant would look less suspicious.

As they settled into a taxi I heard Daniel's voice bark the name of a very swanky restaurant near to where I knew he lived. We were behind them shortly in my own car, Natasha none the wiser to my ulterior motives. Unfortunately the table at which we were seated was a good distance away from theirs, so I couldn't hear precisely what was being said, but they certainly looked like they were having a good time. He had certainly seemed to cheer her from her sombre mood.

Natasha had a tendency to talk without needing much response from me, so it hardly appeared she noticed how distracted I was. We ordered and ate our food, enjoyed some coffee afterwards, and honestly, it was better than eating takeaway alone in front of the telly or with a stack of papers to read. I saw them prepare to leave, so suggested we leave as well. I wasn't about to follow them to Daniel's doorstep, but if they got into the taxi together, I… well, I didn't know what I'd do, to be honest. Pull him from the car and punch him? I wasn't sure what had sparked these protective feelings in me. I guess I didn't want her to get hurt, and I knew what kind of hurt he was capable of delivering.

I emerged from the restaurant with Natasha close behind to see Bridget backing away from Daniel with a smile. "Goodnight," she said, then climbed into the taxi… and closed the door on him.

I smirked a little, particularly at seeing Daniel's unmitigated disappointment. I suppose I needn't have worried, after all.

I had managed to avoid being seen by Daniel, so before he could do so I escorted Natasha back to my car then drove her home. She was herself clearly disappointed, but I had been willing to take the charade only so far.

…

I had given the evening considerable thought since Tuesday night, thinking about what I had done wrong at the party and what I might have done differently to speak more than a few ill-chosen words to Bridget. I didn't know what brought my thoughts back to that evening again over dinner a couple of nights later, but I began to be convinced that my thoughts had made her manifest once more.

This time she was not with Daniel, but rather, a different man. He was older than she was, possibly older than me; very distinguished-looking in a suit and tie, salt and pepper hair, moderately physically fit from what I could see, and wore trendy squarish black spectacles perched on his nose. Oddly, my first thought was whether or not her mother knew she was perfectly capable of acquiring her own dates, and yet had still chosen to try to set her up with me.

During the course of dinner I caught her eyes raise up to look at me, and just as I would look up, hers would lower again. I couldn't begin to fathom what it all meant, so upon clearing the meal from my plate, as I waited for my bill, I decided to pay her table a visit.

"Hello," I said, looking to him then to her again. My appearance at her side seemed to have surprised her. She was herself dressed smartly in what I presumed was something she would wear for work; blouse, skirt, tights, heels, her hair pinned back in a barrette. "What a coincidence, seeing you here."

She smiled. "Hello, Mark. Nice to see you again. This is, um, Henry Shaw. He's someone I met—I know—" She stopped, seemingly at a loss.

"Professionally," supplied Henry.

_Right, like I'd believe that_, I thought.

"Yes, yes," she said, laughing a little. "Henry, this is Mark Darcy. We evidently played together as children."

"Oh," said Henry. "Right. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," I said to him. "Since I never got to say so the other night," I began, looking at Bridget again, "I just wanted to tell you that…" I didn't want to embarrass her in front of her date. "Your speech was certainly not what I was expecting at an affair like that."

"Thank you. Thanks very much indeed." She smiled at me just then, such a genuine smile I had to wonder what she was thinking, smiling at me like that with a date just across the table. Surely she had to know I was laying it on. "So," she went on, peering around me, "are you here with your girlfriend?"

"Pardon?" I asked before my thoughts had a chance to coordinate with my mouth. She obviously meant Natasha, and said so as I thought it. "Oh, she's not my girlfriend."

She raised a brow, smirked at me. I would have sworn she was flirting a little. "She was certainly leading everyone to that conclusion."

I dared not ask what had been said. "Yes, well," I said, figuring it would be best to extricate myself from their date, "she's not. Anyway. I must be off. Goodbye." I knew as I was saying it that I was fumbling with words big time.

"Goodbye," she said.

As I walked away, I heard Henry say, rather puzzlingly to my ear, "Well done."

…

I really began to wonder about the power of thought when I made a routine jog the following afternoon, a Saturday, to Borough Market and back as I was considering Bridget and Henry from the night before. I always liked browsing the fresh fruits and vegetables before jogging back home; I thought it made a nice round trip, I hated jogging somewhere without a destination, and I did not know anyone in this neighbourhood, so it was unlikely I would bump into anyone I knew or who knew me.

I would be wrong.

I rounded a corner and collided into a woman wearing headphones, clearly in her own world and not paying attention to her surroundings. I caught her before she had a chance to fall. "Watch where—oh," she began, then corrected herself when she saw it was me. "Hi again."

I could hardly believe it. Three chance encounters in five days when we had both been living in London, no paths crossing, in all that time prior. "Hello," I said. I was sure I looked a wreck, sweaty and dishevelled from my exertion.

"You're the last person I expected to run into," she quipped. "Do you live 'round here?"

"Not exactly," I said. "I just like to run here and home. Yourself?"

She turned and pointed towards a building that had a pub on the lower level. "Right there, top flat," she said, then turned back to me. She narrowed her eyes, but was smiling a little. "Are you sure you're not stalking me?"

"Quite sure," I said. I hoped she didn't truly think so. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Well, I'm not stalking you," I said.

"You're sorry you are," she said, "or you're sorry you're not?"

I couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "I'm sorry if it seems I might be. And for my appearance."

"What's wrong with your appearance?"

She had to be kidding. "I've been jogging," I said, sure it would be sufficient explanation. It wasn't as if that wasn't obvious.

"True," she said, "but you _haven't_ been in the company of people with sticks up their bums, strapped into a suit and tie and on your best behaviour. It's not a bad look for you."

I had to wonder if she wasn't taking the piss out of me. I also wondered if my expression accused as much, because she added, "No, really. I'm not being facetious." I watched her skin visibly tint pink. "Well. Have to get back upstairs. See you around."

"Bye," I called after a moment of being utterly dumbfounded.

…

I don't know why I was thinking about Bridget so much. She was attractive, if not necessarily in a conventional way, then certainly in a way that was unique. She didn't seem to feel the need to filter her thoughts through an internal editor before they came burbling out, particularly when compared to most everyone else I dealt with on a daily basis. She was irreverent in her way, and there was also a certain assurance that I couldn't quite pin down, one she almost seemed reluctant to show.

Part of the reason my thoughts kept going back to Bridget was that I had somehow managed find myself alone, at a theatre, with Natasha. I hadn't wanted to go anywhere else even semi-privately with Natasha, particularly as I did not want to encourage her in thinking I was interested, but she happened to snag a pair of tickets to the sold out opening night of a highly anticipated new play, ones for which I had missed a window of opportunity to buy due to a court appearance, and I admit I am not above a bit of subterfuge for good theatre.

Imagine my surprise when across the lobby I spotted a familiar head of blonde hair upswept into a glamorous twist; Bridget turned to look at me just as my eyes travelled down to her bare shoulders, to a wrap that encircled them over her strapless dress. She had her arm linked through Henry's, that older friend of hers. They were clearly there together. I smiled and nodded acknowledgement, but with sounding of the bell warned us we should all take our seats.

The play certainly was worth the price of admission. At the intermission, as I went to the bar for a glass of wine each for myself and my companion, I heard a voice from behind me. "I thought she wasn't your girlfriend."

I turned to see Bridget, and I must say the ensemble, the hair, the makeup, the singular silver necklace, was very striking.

"She isn't," I said. "She had tickets."

"And you were willing to do anything for them?" she asked, a glint in her eye.

"Not anything," I said.

With a sense of someone's gaze upon me, I lifted my eyes lifted and saw Henry looking pointedly in our direction.

"Well, next time don't compromise your virtue," she went on with a wink and a smile, "and just come see me first."

I could not figure out what she meant. Was this another flirtation? But she was there with Henry, and they had certainly seemed very friendly earlier. The barman impatiently (and not for the first time, it would seem) called for my attention at that moment, however, and I took my wine, leaving enough to cover the drinks. I offered a small smile and wandered away; my mind was still reeling.

"You're a thousand miles away, Mark," cooed Natasha as she took the glass. "Is it the play?"

"What?" I asked, snapping back to the present.

"It's a bit dense and pretentious," she said, clearly feeling I agreed with her somehow. "I'm not completely attached to seeing the second half if you're not."

"I have no intention of missing it," I said crossly. I thought the first half was brilliant. She probably thought I simply wanted to stay so I could say I'd stayed until the end.

Before heading back to our seats, Natasha decided she needed to powder her nose. I decided to take the opportunity to use the gents. On my way back to the theatre proper, I happened upon a very odd scene: Bridget was with Henry near the bar; she had her brows furrowed, and a few pound coins in her hand.

"No, it's just not done," he said in a lowered voice. "Trust me."

"But it seems wrong," she replied, equally hushed.

"No," he said. "Besides, that's roughly half of what you spent."

She pursed her lips, turned, met my eyes. Then she looked away quickly and shoved her hand into her clutch purse before she and Henry headed back towards their seats. Natasha then appeared looking slightly annoyed, which seemed the norm, and we went to our own seats.

The rest of the play was just as good if not better than the first half. Natasha was bored; frankly, I thought she probably didn't understand it. When it was over, I found myself craning to scan the crowd for Bridget and her date leaving, but I did not find them. Natasha claimed my arm, clasped it so tight I could feel her nails digging in through my suit jacket. "Let's go back to your house for a nightcap," she said in what I supposed she thought was a seductive tone.

"I'll take you home," I said, which in retrospect sounded like I wanted to go to her place. She seemed surprised when I didn't get out of the car. I imagined she was _very_ annoyed when I sped off, leaving her at the kerb.

…

As if that additional encounter wasn't enough to make me start seriously considering consulting the horoscopes on a regular basis, I then went on the weekend to a charity polo match with a group of us from chambers. It was not that I didn't want to attend the event itself, not that I had anything against supporting charities, but amongst our group was Natasha, who interpreted my accompanying them that day as tacit invitation to hang on my arm; she still fancied herself as having a chance with me, and by not pushing her away or abusing her verbally I supposed I was sort of sending mixed signals. It was a good cause, which I thought was probably the only antidote to a weekend afternoon (and into early evening) of Natasha clinging to me as if she were an overanxious howler monkey.

The weather was absolutely delightful. In all honesty I didn't care much about watching the match myself. Before it began we were all engaged in stimulating conversation as Natasha stood glowering somewhat resentfully as she did not have my full attention. She was holding her Pimm's, dressed in her seersucker shirt and khaki trousers, which I doubt she realised made her appear somewhat mannish.

"Mark, isn't that that little publicity girl who gave the speech at the _Kafka's Motorbike_ launch?"

Natasha had spoken up just as there was a lull in a conversation Giles and I were having. I followed her gaze and saw a girl who did very closely resemble Bridget, dressed in a cap-sleeved pale yellow dress that came just to her knees, fitted at the waist and flared out from there. It was obviously well tailored and probably very expensive. With it she wore a wide-brimmed hat in the same colour and sunglasses with pink lenses and frames alike. From beneath the hat, her blonde hair was in loose curls on her shoulders. When I saw Henry at this girl's side I realised that Natasha was correct, though I don't know how she'd recognised someone she had only met once. I then further realised that it must have been because she saw Bridget as a threat, and had memorised every feature to add to her mental database.

Bridget was smiling fairly happily, turning to speak to the people who were around her as if addressing a flock of admirers, her lips nearly the same shade as her specs.

"Yes," I said at last. "I believe it is." I looked to Natasha, whose face revealed the undisguised jealousy she felt. "I don't think even _you_ could find fault with her attire today."

"Not the dress inherently; it's even from this season," she said with a snooty sniff. "But that dress probably costs more than she'd make in a year. Bet I can guess though who paid for that dress and her ticket into this match."

Obviously the comment on the cost of the dress was exaggeration (or at least I hoped it was), but it did rather underscore a point: that her dress and her presence here was rather outside the means of a low-ranking member of a publicity department at a well-to-do publishing house. The whole thing annoyed me in a way I could not clearly define. It would seem Natasha was right, but I just couldn't believe it to be true, not from what I knew about her, and not what I had observed directly. She seemed far too genuine a person, too emotionally honest (I thought back to New Year's Day and her nattering on about resolutions), to be using someone for material gain in this way.

"Or rather," she added dramatically, "what she'll have to do to repay him."

Giles, however, was stabbing his finger in the air. "You say you know her?" he asked. "I'd swear I recognise her from somewhere. A film or something."

Natasha did not appreciate it when her barbs go unrecognised, and as a result she snapped irritably, "What, in a porno?"

"Her parents and mine are friends," I answered, hoping to make Giles forget he'd just been insulted, hoping to make myself forget Bridget had been, too.

"And who's that she's with? Boyfriend?"

"Sugar daddy, more like," seethed Natasha.

Bridget finally turned far enough around to see me, and when she did her smile faded momentarily before brightening again. With a nod to those around her, she disengaged from them and came over to our little group.

"Hi," she said.

Natasha said nothing due to what I was certain was seething envy; Bridget looked even more gorgeous up close. Giles said nothing either. He was obviously gobsmacked. The duty of speaking apparently fell to me.

"Hello," I said. I was wearing a suit jacket and trousers, dress shirt and tie, and she was still making me feel distinctly underdressed.

I could see through the pink lenses her gaze moved to Giles, and I watched her lips slide into an easy, friendly smile. Her expression was devoid of guile as she held out her hand. "We haven't been introduced. I'm Bridget. Bridget Jones."

He didn't take her hand, didn't say a thing except his name: "Giles Benwick." I think he was too love-struck to do anything else. She lowered her hand smoothly, still smiling in a very friendly manner.

"We have to go. Come on," Natasha barked, then turned on her heel and stormed off. It was unforgivably rude, an obvious excuse. Because he was terrified of her, Giles immediately followed.

Since I did not want to make her look like a liar, I nodded in the general direction to indicate my group, then smiled apologetically and said, "Sorry, but I must… well. Go." I then made to follow.

"Mark," she called after me. I turned back to her. "May I please speak to you for a moment? Alone?"

I had no idea why she would need to speak to me in private, but I nodded. We walked away from the crowd a little, found a shady tree to stand beneath. She turned to me, reached up and pulled her sunglasses off before looking at me, her blue eyes wide and luminous. Even with the heels she wore, I still had height on her. "I need to ask you a favour," she said. "Please, don't say a word."

She had to have meant her relationship with Henry. I could only imagine what the old hens in Grafton Underwood would say about such a scandal. "You can count on my discretion," I told her.

She sighed with her relief. "Thank you so much," she said. "It's just… it's really great to be here. It's so upper-crust and fancy. I can't wait for the game to start."

I lowered my brows, confused by her terminology. "Have you ever been to a polo match before?"

"Well…" she began, demurring. "No."

I smiled, even laughed a little. "Couldn't tell." I went through and briefly explained polo to her, and she listened with great interest, occasionally politely interrupting me with relevant questions.

"Now I'll know what to watch for and when to cheer," she said with a smile.

At that moment a round of applause went up and I whipped around to see that the polo ponies had taken the field. I turned to see her slip her sunglasses back into place.

"I should go find Henry and our tent," she said with a smile.

"Of course," I said, thinking of my chair under our own marquee.

We walked back towards the cluster of covered tables, where Henry was waiting with a fond smile. He extended his elbow to her. She cast a look back at me and smiled. "Thanks again."

"My pleasure."

Their marquee was close to ours; subsequently my attention kept wandering to the wide-brimmed, pale lemon hat, to where she was watching attentively, leaning over to comment to Henry, and laughing at his comments. I must admit to a certain level of envy, as the person within closest proximity to me, Natasha, was offering her own commentary on how if this event had not been for charity she would have left as soon as she'd come. I wished she had.

As I looked from table to table, everyone, in traditional English style, looked as if they were bored, uninterested, and like Natasha wanted to be anywhere but there, but were too polite to leave. The only person in the place to show any life at all was the girl in the yellow hat.

The match concluded—and it was, in my opinion, not a bad match at all, but it was possible that I was amongst the minority of those who actually knew what was going on—and we all rose to gather our things to leave. I knew there would be more hobnobbing; I hoped that Natasha would leave and that Bridget would stay.

I stopped for a moment to consider my thoughts. I could hardly fault Giles for his sudden schoolboy behaviour when I myself was acting no differently; I was just better at keeping it hidden. I hadn't stopped thinking about her since I'd first seen her there, and I certainly couldn't stop looking at her. This was no longer possible to deny. I raised my eyes, scanned for that spot of yellow.

I found it. And by some miracle of God, Natasha swept up to me, took my hands, announced she had to go, then pecked a kiss on my cheek before sweeping away. I decided to further press my luck, and I strode over to where Bridget and Henry were standing.

"Had a nice time, I trust?" I asked, just as I realised she was looking a bit despondent. My happy spirits, my very belief in miracles, deflated as she spoke.

"I was," she said, "but we have to leave."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

Henry spoke up. "Bridget, I can't leave you here."

"He's my ride," she explained.

"Oh," I said, struck by the best idea ever to strike a human being. "Why don't I bring you back to town?"

Henry looked disapproving, but Bridget said, "Henry, he told me he won't say anything."

Arching a single brow, Henry regarded me with a bit more openness. "Well," he said. "So long as you don't stay too long, I suppose."

_Rather short lead_, I thought with some annoyance.

"Oh, thank you. I'll call you later, then?" She grinned at him, then turned to me. "And thank you for offering. I really am having a grand time."

"I'm happy to do it."

Henry and Bridget said their goodbyes—a little coolly, I thought, but perhaps they were just being discreet—and she slipped her hand through my elbow; me, her new escort for the rest of the day. "Shall we have a drink?"

I thought it best not to have another, but we walked towards the bar and ordered a glass of wine for her. "I noticed you seemed to prefer white," I said at her look of slight astonishment.

"I do," she said.

"Then what is it?"

"I just can't believe you noticed."

I felt a bit of heat creep over my cheek, hoped in the bright light of the sun and her pink-tinted lenses she couldn't tell.

I sipped my water with lemon while she drank her wine; she asked me a little more about my work, listened intently to my responses and asked thoughtful follow-up questions leading to a bit of debate. Before I knew it the event was ending and we had not had a chance to mingle with anyone else. I didn't mind at all.

The drive back to London did not take much time. It was mostly spent in silence; Bridget seemed in her own world. I remained exceedingly confused by the paradox before me: a nice, warm, down-to-earth, funny girl in opposition to a materialistic kept woman seeing a man I felt was far too old for her.

"You remembered this too."

I snapped back to reality. "Pardon?"

"Where my flat is."

I realised quite without conscious thought my car had gone straight to her building. "I jog to the neighbourhood quite frequently."

"Oh, yes," she said. "You did mention that." She smiled. Again without thinking I got up and out of the vehicle in order to help her up and out of the passenger side seat. She seemed startled, but accepted my assistance (and my hand). "Well. Thank you again for the lift home. I had a really nice time chatting with you."

I realised just then how off New Year's really had been. "I enjoyed it too." I walked her to the door, thought about asking her for supper, but remembered she had planned on contacting Henry. "Well. Good night."

Since the sun was arcing ever downward through the sky, she had removed the sunglasses, and of course the low overhead within the auto itself had precluded the wearing of the hat, so she stood there on the stoop looking more like the girl I had come to know; her head was tilted slightly, her eyes a little wide and unblinking. "Good night," she said suddenly, coming out of her own trance, before digging for her key in her handbag, then turning it and entering the building, flashing another, more restrained smile my way as she did.

I turned for home, and it occurred to me that I had done nothing to plan or prepare for supper once I'd returned. I immediately went to the kitchen and put a fillet steak on to fry, then cut up some lettuce and tomato for a bit of greens with red wine vinegar and olive oil. My thoughts as I ate went back to the afternoon, of the blue sky, green grass, and that butter yellow hat and dress of Bridget's. I was fooling no one. I was thinking of _her_. This was evident when I looked down to my plate and saw I had cut my steak into centimetre-sized cubes.

Inevitably I thought of Henry too, her—well, I wasn't sure what to call him. I hated to think of him as 'lover' because I really hated thinking of her sharing his bed, but 'boyfriend' seemed all wrong, and 'sugar daddy' didn't speak very highly of her… when I thought very highly of her, indeed.

I considered not only her, but her situation, of what seemed to be versus what I observed. Perhaps there was an alternative explanation. Perhaps her mother had purchased the dress for her? But thinking of her parents' abode, knowing that Mr Jones was retired, I didn't think it reasonable to assume the Joneses could to afford a dress that costly. There was also the aspect to consider that Mrs Jones had not displayed taste that good in clothing over the New Year. Maybe the dress was a loan? I dismissed that too. What were the odds that she had a friend whose dresses happened to be so well tailored to her own figure… or would allow her to tailor such expensive couture to her own form?

No matter how much turned it over in my head, I could not reconcile the two. It was stupid, anyway, to continue to think of her so much, not when she was already involved. I resolved to put this schoolboy crush out of my head.


	2. Chapter 2: Fortune Telling

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 4,688  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 2: Fortune Telling

I had a business lunch with a client on Wednesday. It had been just about two weeks since I had re-encountered Bridget at the book launch, and I felt I had done moderately well at forgetting about her.

It seemed though that Fate had ideas about that.

Lunch was finishing and we said our goodbyes, my client and I. It had been a productive meeting, and I was confident our strategy was sound. I was about to leave when something caused me glance into the bar.

It was someone I recognised… with someone I did not.

The salt and pepper hair, the dark square specs, the affable smile… it was without a doubt Henry Shaw. With him was a woman, attractive, very keenly dressed in an outfit suitable for a professional woman, and she was closer to what I perceived Henry's age to be. He had his arm around her shoulders; she had hers around his waist, and they were casually but affectionately leaning into each other. She had chestnut brown hair with blonder highlights that looked applied rather than as the result of a day in the sun, but fetching nonetheless; it was cut in a dynamic bob that swept down over her eyes then went high up on to the back of her neck. The slightest move on her part caused it to shift. This cut might ordinarily have looked ridiculous on any other woman of that age group, but on her it worked; she was clearly physically fit and took care of herself, so her long, slender neck and chin were still very well defined, her features still rather sharp.

Henry saw me just then, that obvious look passing across his features that told me he was trying to place me in context, before said features went absolutely unreadable. Possibly he was afraid I would say something. The woman he was with followed his gaze to look at me, then looked at Henry querulously. I didn't think there was any way around introductions. I moved into the bar area with a reserved smile on my face.

"Henry. Nice to see you again," I said cordially.

"Hello Mark," said Henry, who smiled too, then looked to his wife. "Emma, this is Mark Darcy. He practices the law, human rights, if I remember correctly."

"You do," I said.

"And Mark, this is Emma Shaw." In the pause here, I could only think, _Sister? Relative?_ However, Henry concluded with, "My wife."

"Very nice to meet you, Mark," she said, her smile bright as she extended her hand to me. "I have heard some _very_ nice things about you."

"It's very nice to meet you, too," I said cautiously. I couldn't say I'd heard nice things about her because I hadn't known of her existence until just now.

Fate threw me another curve ball, to use American slang. "I don't expect I've come up much in conversation," Emma said with a laugh; it was a laugh I liked, real, genuine. "I hear you and my husband have a mutual friend."

The only friend we had in common was—"Bridget?" My stomach sunk further. Emma was aware of Bridget's existence? How cruel it was to do what they were doing behind her back.

Emma looked a little surprised, looked to Henry then back to me. "Is there another?" she asked with a wink. "I heard you all had a fantastic time at the polo match." My mind continued to reel. "Funny coincidence, actually—we're meeting her here for lunch. She's due any moment. And then we girls are going shopping. No boys allowed."

I was not quite sure what my features did; I worked very hard not to let my shock show. "You're friends as well?"

"Absolutely," said Emma. "I _adore_ that girl. Such a promising career ahead of her, I think. And speaking of the devil…"

I turned towards the door and saw Bridget had arrived. Again she was wearing something appropriate for the office in which she worked; very different from the polo event, but the essence of that glamourous woman was still there. She was fussing in her handbag as she approached. "Hi, sorry I'm late—that's what I get for asking Daniel to give me some _real_ work," she said, then looked up. She looked very surprised to see me there; her mouth dropped ever so slightly open.

"It's all right," said Emma. "We understand how taxing the world of publishing can be."

She still looked at me, even during Emma's fond, tight hug. As she pulled back she turned her gaze to the two of them. "What's going on?"

"Mr Darcy here happened upon us waiting for you," said Emma.

"Please, call me Mark," I said automatically.

"Mark it is then," said Emma, stepping into Henry's arms again, and Henry accepting her happily. They seemed very happy together; I realised then how much cooler his interactions were with Bridget, even discounting distance for discretion. "And of course you must call me Emma. Oh, Mark, are you free? Why don't you have lunch with us, level the playing field a bit?"

I sort of wanted to just to see what awkward avenues conversation might take, but I had just finished eating, and had to get back to the office. "That's very kind," I said, "but I have a court appointment to make."

"Oh, right, of course you do," Emma said. "Well, see you again some time, I'm sure."

I smiled again. I did not know what to make of this, not at all, and as a result my words were not coming to me freely. It hadn't consciously occurred to me until that moment that she hadn't spoken since she arrived except to ask what was going on. "Goodbye. Bridget, nice to see you again."

"Bye, Mark," she said. "Nice to see you too."

As I made my way back to the office, my mind replayed the historical interactions between Bridget and Henry, given the new information about Emma. I had to admit, despite my earlier thoughts that the two of them must be seeing one another on the sly, I didn't really see any evidence of a physical attraction; despite always being near him, there was no bodily contact to speak of, even when there had been no reason to be circumspect. It was true that Bridget had been on his arm at the theatre, but then again, Natasha had been on mine because I was her escort. He seemed to be more like hers; his expression, in retrospect, spoke more of admiration than dirty-old-man lust. Additionally, if he were the only one at the match she knew (besides me), it made sense she would stay close.

I couldn't figure out, then, what exactly their relationship was about if not romantic. However, it made a lot more sense to me, set my mind more at ease, to think she wasn't the sort of girl to trade favours for presents.

I thought of the dress, of the one possibility that seemed likeliest, the one I had failed to consider: Natasha had simply been wrong about the provenance of the dress. She was not infallible, after all, and liked to make others think she knew more than she did.

I grinned as I went to my afternoon appointment. I felt much lighter all around.

…

"I remembered the name."

I had no earthly idea to what Giles was referring as he accosted me on the way back from my meeting. It must have been obvious, because he explained without prompting:

"The film. The one with the girl in it that I think looks like your friend Bridget."

My mind went unbidden back to thoughts along the lines of Natasha's comment.

"It's been a while since I've seen it, but you should check it out."

I asked him what it was called, which he told me. I promptly forgot it, something to do with World War II and Pearl Harbour. It was not really my preferred genre and it wasn't anything I'd heard of. I was not sure why he thought it was so important, but to placate him I told him I would look into it, and I thanked him.

Quite honestly, I had other things on my mind, like working up the nerve to ask Bridget out for dinner. I'd never been good at setting myself up for failure, so like my ex-wife, like Natasha, I had usually relied on a more aggressive woman to make the first move. I didn't say it was a perfect solution, and obviously the results in the past had been less than stellar. I knew I had to change my _modus operandi_ in this instance though and just do it before I grew old trying… or Daniel Cleaver wore down her resistance and she acquiesced.

Later that evening, after I arrived home from work, I noticed my answerphone light blinking. Rarely did I come home to find a message; anyone who needed to reach me simply hung up and tried my mobile instead. I pressed the button to listen.

"Hello," said a voice, slightly timid and female, "I was trying to reach Mark Darcy. Given the message I think I've been successful. Anyway. Hello. I was wondering if you might be free for supper or coffee or something sometime. If you'd like please give me a ring. Thanks. Bye."

I was floored. Never in a million years did I think she might ring me first to ask. I realised by the time stamp that she had only just phoned twenty minutes earlier. Was it too eager to ring back so soon? Maybe she'd meant that night.

I reached to pick up the phone but realised then that she had not left her number, and it had not appeared on the caller identification. Before I had a chance to pull out a telephone directory or ring up directory assistance, my telephone rang again. I cleared my throat, realised I had not even shed my suit jacket.

"Mark Darcy speaking," I said.

There was no sound on the other end of the line for many seconds. "Oh, hi." It was in fact Bridget. "I was expecting your machine."

"If you like I can hang up and you can ring back to talk to it."

She chuckled. "No, sorry," she said. "I was just going to leave my number, but I guess now I don't need to."

"Well," I said. "You still could."

On the pad next to the telephone I jotted down the number she rattled off.

"So," I said. "You mentioned something about supper sometime."

"Oh, yes," she said, sounding a little surprised.

"Would tonight qualify as 'sometime'?"

I could hear the smile in her voice as she said, "It might. Though I would prefer, actually, not to go out."

My brows came together of their own accord. Was she suggesting—"Not go out?"

"I mean, stay in," she said. "You could come by and we could have supper here."

It seemed a bit out of the ordinary for a first date, but she was not an ordinary girl. "So you'll be cooking?"

"Oh, heavens no," she said, "not unless you want to eat at three in the morning. I was thinking more along the lines of a takeout. I've got some wine. It could be good."

I thought it would be more than good. "Any particular sort of takeaway?"

"I'm pretty open to everything. Chinese and Thai are close to me… there's a curry place nearby too. Very good. So… surprise me."

I grinned. "I'll be over soon then."

"Great. I'll see you when you get here."

I wasn't quite sure why she didn't want to go out, but it didn't matter. I would have her all to myself—and I didn't mean in a lecherous way. It would be nice to talk, spend time with her, without the distraction of other people around. Maybe she simply felt that way too.

I decided that a suit was not appropriate for a casual dinner in a pretty girl's flat, so I changed clothes into a light jumper and trousers. As for food, I opted for the safest alternative of the three with regards to spice, a Chinese dish of chicken and snow peas, along with some fried lo mein and egg rolls. All told it was about an hour's time between our phone conversation and my arrival at her building. The main door was locked. I did not see her name under any of the buttons, but reasoned that the top flat was the one all the way to the right, so I pressed it. It was some moments before a tinny voice came out of the speaker. "Hello?"

"It's me. Mark."

"Of course. Come on up. Top flat."

I heard the lock release, so I pulled open the door, then made the trek up to the top. I knocked on the flat's door. She must have been waiting for me, because the door opened straightaway.

She greeted me with a smile. For the first time, I think, we were at eye level, with her a step or two up on the stairs into the flat proper. She was wearing denims and a knit top, had her hair pulled up into a clip from which ribbons of blonde hair had made an escape. On her feet she was wearing a pair of thick-soled pink slippers. If she was wearing makeup, it was subtle; either way she looked absolutely radiant. "Hi," she said.

"Delivery for Ms Jones," I said, holding up the carrier bag.

She laughed. "Come in." She turned around and went back into the flat. I followed her up and into the kitchen, where she had already set out some plates. As she unloaded the carrier bag, I had a look around the flat. It was about what I expected. A little eclectic, very cosy, and did not appear to be open plan. She had set a bottle of wine and two glasses on the table. It was white. I wasn't surprised. I smiled a little.

"I'll open and pour," I said.

"If you don't mind," she said.

I took the foil from the top of the bottle. "I'll need a corkscrew."

She stopped with a noodle-loaded spoon in hand. "Corkscrew."

"Yes."

"Damn." She set the spoon down, took a step to the side. "It should be… here." She pulled open a drawer. Even I could see that's where the kitchen towels were. I fought a smirk. "Hm, maybe next one over." She pulled it open, started rummaging through, until she pulled up the corkscrew triumphantly. "Ah, here you are."

It was amusing. "Don't drink much?"

She looked sheepish. "Not here, anyway."

I tried really hard not to laugh, but was afraid I was not successful. "It's all right." I took the corkscrew from her hand. My fingers brushed hers. Our eyes met, then hers lowered before she turned back to portioning out dinner.

I had felt the charge of attraction. I was sure she did too.

She brought over the plates, set one down before me. There was an odd, sort of crescent-shaped baked object on the edge of the plate. I picked it up.

"What on earth is this?"

She looked at me as if I were mad. "It's a fortune cookie."

"A what?"

"You know, they always throw these in for the end of the meal. You break it open, eat the bits, then read the fortune inside."

"I have never seen one of these in my life," I said. A foggy memory was coming back to me. "No, that isn't true. I was given one in New York. But it seemed made of plastic; I had no idea it was meant to be eaten." She smiled, then chuckled; she was apparently game for chopsticks as she picked them up and swirled her noodles around.

"Hm," she said at last. "I get takeout from this place all the time and it always comes with fortune cookies."

I wondered if perhaps the owners of that particular shop weren't from America. "Do they actually taste all right?"

"Eh, they're passable," she said, "but I think the tradition of leaving the reading of the fortune until you've eaten the thing is a ruse just to get you to eat them."

I chuckled, idly wondering how it was she knew so much about this 'tradition'. "Well, then, let's eat. Our fortunes are calling."

The food was incredibly good, as was the wine. We talked more about me than about her, which under ordinary circumstances would have made me very uncomfortable, but she had a lot of questions for me, and it felt the most natural thing in the world to open up to her and tell her things about myself.

By the time she was finished eating and was through a second glass of wine, she had her elbow on the table, chin in her palm, and was smiling blearily at me. I was pretty sure she was a little pissed. "I'm glad you could come over," she said. "It's nice to just… I don't know. Be myself."

"I'm glad I came, too." I really was. It was wonderful to spend time with someone who was just being herself, and someone with whom I could just be myself, too. I sipped the bottom of my own glass. "Time for dessert?" I indicated the fortune cookies.

She laughed. "Coffee first," she said, getting to her feet, a bit unsteadily I noticed. "How do you feel about espresso?"

"Seems a bit strange to follow up a Chinese dish with an Italian beverage…" I began, trailing off.

"I have a proper dessert too," she scolded. "It should be ready by the time the espresso is." She went to the freezer and pulled out a little box that I recognised instantly.

"Viennetta," I said.

"They're amazing," she gushed. "I'll just get the espresso going. Why don't you go make yourself comfortable?"

"You don't need a hand?"

"I can clear the table, and I've made espresso a million times," she said, putting some beans into a grinder. "Have a seat. Relax."

I went into down into her homely little sitting room area. Fireplace, though it was not a night for a fire; books lining the shelves; lots of little framed photos; a laptop sitting on the sofa and open, the wiggly lines indicating a screensaver was active. Since it was the only two-seat furniture in the place and I really hoped she would sit next to me, I picked it up with the intention of moving it to another table. My finger hit a key, though, and brought the laptop to life.

When I saw the image on the computer desktop, I could not stop myself from grinning. It was a picture of a very well known Hollywood actor—French in nationality, dark brown hair, greenish eyes, chiselled features, early to mid-thirties from the look of him—in a picture that had been everywhere. The other women I knew (and most of the men) had never even changed their computer desktops from the operating system default. Hell, even _I_ still had the default desktop. Here was a woman not afraid to wear her heart on her sleeve… or as the case may be, her idol on her desktop. I tried not to think how unlike him, physically speaking, I looked.

My eyes of their own accord flitted to documents on the desktop, innocuously titled things like 'schedule' and 'work'… and something called 'letter to X.' I looked away, set the laptop down on a small desk just behind the sofa as she came in with the demitasse cups on saucers. She looked a bit mortified.

"Sorry," I said; it was clear the screensaver had gone off and I had seen the desktop. "I was moving it off of the sofa and my finger slipped onto a key." I grinned. "So you're a fan too?"

"What?"

I pointed to the desktop photo. "I do read newspapers, you know. I know who this fellow is."

"Oh," she said. She had turned quite scarlet. "Um… would you mind just closing that up, and bringing over the little red table? I'll just bring out the Viennetta next."

Clearly she was embarrassed by having been caught with the equivalent of a teen idol picture up on her bedroom wall. I wasn't going to pursue it. I closed the computer's top then carried the red table over by the sofa. The espresso looked and smelled fantastic.

"Be right back."

She was back with two little plates upon which two neat little slices of Viennetta sat, a fork protruding from each one. She looked more like herself, bright smile in place.

"Here we are." She handed me one, the fortune cookie on the side. "I promise this is the same one you got with dinner. I was very careful to keep them straight."

I smiled. "Thanks."

"I love these," she raved. "Stopped carrying them in the store we used to go to when I was a kid… so glad to discover they were easy to find here in London."

I smiled, took a corner off, then ate it. It had been some time since I had had a slice of this, since I had in general indulged in sinfully delicious ice cream and espresso after seven in the evening.

"Let's not forget," she said. "Fortunes."

"You go first," I said.

She cracked open her fortune cookie. "Shall we agree we don't need to eat these?"

"Agreed," I said.

From the centre of the cookie, she pulled a little strip of paper. I could see some numbers or something printed on the back. As she read it, she smiled, then laughed.

"What does it say?"

She raised her eyes to look at me, barely disguised smirk in place. "'Your artistic talents win the approval and applause of others.'"

I could only speculate on which artistic talents those might be, and smiled.

"How about you?"

I broke open the extremely thick and brittle trifle and to my surprise there were two fortunes residing within.

'A thrilling time is in your immediate future.'

'May life throw you a pleasant curve.'

"So?" she asked eagerly.

I decided to play it cool, and only read the second one aloud to her before folding them up and sticking them into my pocket.

"Well, that's a _lovely_ fortune," she said. "Everyone needs a little upheaval once in a while, right?"

"Absolutely." After all, she certainly had been a delightful upheaval in my life thus far, one with very pleasant curves.

Sitting with only centimetres between us, we made it through our dessert and finished our espresso; she asked if I wanted more but I declined. "I have to work in the morning," I said, alluding to the espresso's intense caffeine content.

She nodded, leaning to set her cup and plate down, then held out her hand to silently ask for my dishes. "I understand," she said, somewhat sombrely, setting my things next to hers. She didn't look back at me, only fussed with stacking the plates and cups. "I need to get up early for work, too."

It occurred to me then that she thought I meant I didn't want more because I had to leave. "You misunderstand. I meant the coffee. I'll be up all night if I have any more."

"Oh," she said, her embarrassment evident as she turned to face me again.

Our eyes met and I really, _truly_ felt a connection. "I _should_ go," I explained tenderly, covering her hand with my own as it rested idly on the sofa cushion, "but I don't want to." Overcome by impulse, I leaned forward and planted a kiss on her lips. Chaste, sweet, quick… though she did not recoil from me I was immediately regretful for taking such a liberty. As taken aback as she looked, I hastily offered an apology.

She only continued to look at me with a sort of startled, blank look. "It's… it's all right," she said at last, her voice slightly crackly, almost ghost-like. Her eyes were moving as if they were searching mine; I don't know if they found what they were looking for but I can only presume they did, because the next thing I knew she had placed her mouth over mine, had pressed me up against the back of the sofa, and kissed me in a way that was unlike any kiss I had ever experienced before: lips soft and sweet and eager, tongue fleeting and nimble against mine…

It was as exquisite as it was to be brief.

I brought my arms up and around her, splayed my hands on her back, but just as I did she quickly drew back. She had her hand over her mouth and was blinking rapidly. "I'm sorry." I hardly thought she had anything to be sorry for. "I should not have—oh God, this makes everything way too complicated."

I wasn't sure what she meant. "Complicated?"

"It isn't you," she was quick to add, looking up at me again; only then did I see her eyes were glossy with emotion. "I really like you, Mark. _Really_ like you. Tonight was marvellous."

"But…?" I prompted. The sting was evident in my voice.

She shook her head, looking down. "I can't really talk about it. It would probably be best if you…" She trailed off before adding, "…left."

I felt whiplashed. "I'll go if that's what you want," I said, straining for a normal tone, which was difficult considering I was still fighting the effects of her kiss.

She put her hand on mine. "I _don't_ want," she said, confusing me further until she added, "but until I can get some things straightened out, you should."

I felt a bit better about it, and nodded. She only needed time to clear her head, to not rush into anything. "All right."

She stood and took the plates to the kitchen, which gave me a moment to compose myself before I stood as well. I headed towards the door and we met each other just by the staircase down to the door that led out of the flat. We descended the stairs, she trailing behind me.

Before I opened the door, I turned back to her. She was on that step again, the one that put us at eye level. "Thanks again for a lovely dinner," she said, looking and sounding far more composed herself.

"It was my pleasure," I said, and I meant it. "Goodnight."

As if some sort of gravitational pull were at work, I found myself drawn to her, and when I leaned to kiss her she moved forward to meet me; with no less fire than that which had erupted on the sofa, she put her arms around my neck, her fingers raked through the hair at the nape, and kissed me like she had earlier.

It was again far too brief.

"I'll call you," she breathed, placing her hand tenderly on my cheek. "I promise."

I nodded.

"I'm not trying to be a tease," she said, the attempt at lightness not really succeeding. "Honestly."

"I know," I managed. In that moment I don't know if I was convinced.

Next thing I recalled was being on the street, walking towards my car, in the shocking cool of the late spring night. I had been so caught up in my thoughts I don't remember leaving the flat and closing the door behind me.

Maybe she'd had a bad experience recently, needed time to think about things. I knew I shouldn't take it personally, even though I'd just been snogged within an inch of my life then turned 'round and shown the door. She'd even said it had nothing to do with me.

I couldn't help feeling a bit like it was me, after all.

My first instinct was to just forget about her and move on, but I knew from past experience this was easier said than done. The alternate would be to just exercise patience, and I was an expert at patience. I could be as forbearing as an eighteenth century suitor and court her appropriately.


	3. Chapter 3: Patience is a Virtue

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 6,980  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Special note: I neglected to mention that this story would not have happened without my dearest C. The concept was all hers, and I don't think I could have executed it without her help. ('Help' seems so inadequate a word.)

* * *

Chapter 3: Patience is a Virtue

I wanted to play it cool and not too eager. She did, after all, say she would call me. On Friday I was slated to meet for drinks at three with Giles to discuss an upcoming case, and we chose a less formal setting, the bar at the Novotel near London Bridge. Our work was concluded quickly, and naturally we talked of non-work related things. He asked me if I'd had a chance to track down a copy of the film he'd mentioned on Wednesday. I told him not quite yet.

We wrapped things up around five or so. I realised I probably should not have had that last glass of wine, and was thankful I had not driven, but now I had the daunting task of trying to find a taxi just at the peak of rush hour. To add insult to injury, while I had been in the hotel bar, it had started to rain. Not just rain, pour. I was grateful for my mack.

I scanned up and down the street to see if I could spot a taxi that was not engaged when I saw a familiar head of blonde hair done up in a casual ponytail under a sad excuse of an umbrella. I was sure it was Bridget. It seemed she too was looking for a taxi. She turned then so that I saw her more than just in profile, and I was glad she hadn't seen me, because I was sure I recoiled when I saw her expression. She looked completely devastated. I forgot my quest for the moment and went up to her.

"Bridget?"

She turned to me, obviously startled, clearly upset. Her eyes were reddened and her cheeks damp; her nose was pink and chafed as if she had been blowing it. "Oh, hi," she said. I couldn't tell if she was happy to see me or not.

Naturally I was concerned. "Is everything all right?"

She smiled, ponytail bobbing as she nodded, but even as she did fresh tears welled in her eyes and she began sobbing again. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've just had a hard day, that's all."

I didn't believe it had only been a hard day. I had never seen her so shattered.

I was determined at that moment to see her home the entire way, so I said, "Wait here," and with laser-like focus turned to find a taxi with a vacancy light blazing. I was a man with a mission, and in short order I found one. With purpose I strode forward off the walk and into the street, my hand raised to hail it. I met the taxi driver's eyes, and he dutifully pulled aside to the kerb.

I turned to her, beckoned her to come forth. "Come on."

"It's your taxi," she said.

"We'll share," I said, then emphasised, "Come on."

She folded up her umbrella, then I helped her into the back seat. She gave the driver her street address (which I immediately committed to memory), then curled up against the door, looking out the window as the car inched forward.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

"Bridget," I said soothingly. "What's going on?"

She looked down, and as she did I saw more tears slide down her cheeks, which she hastily wiped away. "I'll be fine."

I couldn't bear to see her in such a state. "Come here," I said gently. I held out my arm. She looked confused. "You look like you could use a bit of a friendly cuddle."

She sputtered a laugh as the tears came anew, but she scooted on the seat towards me, turned to accept my embrace despite my sodden overcoat. She rested her cheek on my collarbone, brought her arm up and around to return the embrace as best she could, and I just held her close, my hand splayed protectively and my fingers curling to grasp her shoulder and upper arm. I didn't care if she cried onto my shirt, tie and suit jacket. I could feel her rocking a little with sobs. I reached into my suit pocket and fished out the pocket square, holding it out for her to take. She burbled another thank you, then dabbed the cloth to her face and blew her nose.

She dropped the handkerchief to her lap, breath slowing, tears and sobs ebbing, and she returned her arm around me, though this time slipped her hand along my shirt (and under my jacket) to rest along my ribcage. I bent my head, rested my chin on her damp hair, then pressed a kiss there. I felt her hand slip down and tighten on my hip.

It was one of the few occasions in my life in which I was grateful for standstill London traffic. It made our embrace during that relatively short distance last that much longer. I vowed that if she asked me up to her flat, I would politely decline. Whatever had happened to put her in such a state—I was not about to ask—there was no question she was emotionally raw and vulnerable; I could not afford to be there if the impulse to kiss me struck her again, because I honestly could not say that I would have had the power to resist.

As we approached her neighbourhood, I asked her, "Feeling better?"

"Yeah," she said quietly, snuggling a little closer until the taxi stopped. "You're right. That's exactly what I needed."

"I'm glad."

I paid the fare (to her protestation) then helped her up out of the back seat. The train rumbled by as I walked with her to the stoop of the building.

"You'll be all right?" I asked as she climbed up on the step.

She nodded. "Thanks again. Oh. Here." She held up her hand and I saw the edges of the pocket cloth hanging down.

"Please, keep it," I said. "I have others."

I saw a smile touch her lips. "I suppose it's rude of me to try to give you a snotty thing back." That made me laugh, which made her laugh too. She shoved the cloth into her jacket pocket, then pulled her keys up to open the door.

"Thanks again, Mark," she said, then lifted up, pecked a kiss on my cheek, and turned to open the door, quickly ducking into her building without so much as a glance backward.

I should not have been surprised, but I had been spending so much time contemplating how I might gracefully back down from an invitation that it never occurred to me she might not actually invite me in. I guess she needed a bit of time to herself. I really didn't mind and couldn't take it personally, even if I did feel a bit rejected.

As luck would have it, the taxicab was still idling at the kerb. As I approached, the window lowered. "Might you be available for another fare?" I asked.

"Sure," he said. "I was actually waiting to see whether you were staying or going. Kinda thought you might be staying."

I didn't really need commentary from the taxi driver on the state of my relationship (nascent as it was) with Bridget, didn't want to encourage a third-party analysis of what had just occurred, so I opened the back door, sat down and in a business-like tone proceeded to give him my home address.

I spent the entire weekend analysing it myself, however. I tried to work out why she had been near the hotel we'd had our drinks in, and it occurred to me: it wasn't far from the offices of Pemberley Press. When I thought of what could have made her cry, factoring in Pemberley Press, I could only think that her trouble had had something to do with Daniel Cleaver.

I contained my urge to find him and kill him. I thought instead I would be the better man, and immediately upon getting home I went to ringing up to find a florist for delivery. First, though, I had to decide exactly what kind of flower to send. Roses, while beautiful, were beyond obvious and cliché in pursuit of (or to comfort) a lady, and seemed to better suit, well, the likes of Natasha in any attempt to impress. Bridget was different, special… and downright wild in comparison.

Wild.

The corner of my mouth lifted with a smile.

I rang up the florist's and asked them to deliver on Monday morning the most unusual, brightly coloured, and fragrant bunch of wildflowers they could put together. I gave them the address for Pemberley Press, thinking with a perverse amount of pleasure what Daniel's reaction might be like if (rather, when) he learned I was sending flowers to a woman who had rejected him.

On the card I asked them to write: 'Throw me a curve ball. Mark.'

When Monday came, I both regretted and was thankful that I had forgotten to give her my mobile number; thankful because it kept me from looking every five minutes to see if she'd phoned me; regretful because it meant I could not know until I got home.

My answerphone was not blinking upon my arrival. I tried not to feel too dejected. Perhaps they had failed to make the delivery. Perhaps she was not yet home from work herself, and did not have my home number with her. I decided to throw myself into something that would take my mind off of it: a jog.

It was no coincidence that I took my usual route towards Borough Market. In this instance, though, I was very aware of my appearance and attentive to my surroundings, not that I was certain I would see her at all, only hopeful.

However, I did see her.

She was browsing in front of a fruit market; the flowers were sticking up out of her holdall. As I approached she turned with an apple in her hand—temptation, indeed—and though she looked a little weary, she smiled when she saw me.

"Mark."

Setting the apple hurriedly back into place, she ran forward and tackled me with an embrace, nearly knocking the wind out of me. "They're so lovely," she murmured into my ear. As if realising her outburst might have been attracting attention, she pushed herself back abruptly, flushing a bright red as she did. "Sorry," she said.

"That is nothing to apologise for," I said, feeling very proud of my efforts. "I'm just glad you liked them."

She pulled the bouquet out from her bag, then brought them to her nose and inhaled deeply. "I do. I really do. I just felt so badly about…." She trailed off. I'm not sure what she felt badly about: not inviting me in, kissing me then booting me from her flat previous to that. It didn't matter. I could think only of the kiss we'd shared, the extended embrace in the taxi, both of which I had enjoyed very much indeed.

"As you can see," I said, "all water under the bridge." I tried to restrain myself from reaching for her once more. "Maybe we can have dinner again."

"I would love to," she said softly.

"How's Friday night for you?" Friday, a good night for a date; Friday, four long days away.

"Perfect." Her smile then transformed into a frown, and her brows drew together in consternation. "Ohhh. _Not_ perfect. I just remembered I have a late meeting Friday."

"When will you be free?" I asked.

"About eight."

"Why don't I—" I stopped in midsentence. I was going to suggest we meet at a restaurant, but I knew I could do better, and my entire Friday afternoon was free from appointments, meetings, court appearances and other things that plague a barrister's days. "Why don't you come to my house when you're finished?"

She looked sceptical. "And then go where?"

"I'll cook."

"Are you a good cook?"

"Passably good." She didn't reply. "You don't have to look so disbelieving."

She chuckled. "I'm not used to that. Someone to cook for me."

"I'll cook for you," I said again.

She smiled again, and it was a beautiful thing to witness, full of warmth and emotion. "Okay. Friday at eight, your place."

I nodded.

"One small detail. I have no idea where you live."

I laughed out loud. "Have something to write on and with?"

I gave her my address, which she wrote on the back of the card that came with the flowers with a pen that the fruit vendor had.

"Have a good night," I said. "I'll see you Friday."

She nodded, "Goodnight, Mark." She placed her hands (bouquet still occupying one of them) on my forearms, then got up on her toes to place a lingering kiss on my cheek. The scent from the flowers wafted into my nose, filling my senses. "See you then."

It may have been a touch obsessive, but I spent the entirety of my jog considering supper possibilities. I felt something simple and satisfying might work better than a dish that was all style and little substance.

…

As Friday got closer, to say I was a little nervous would be an understatement. I wasn't sure why; did I think I would lose all self-control having her alone in my house? I settled on a pasta dish, rotini with pesto, which I thought would be safe enough, light, filling, tasty and a low possibility for disaster (unlike long messy spaghetti strands). I decided I would keep the water on a simmer so that when she arrived I could quickly bring it to a boil then cook the pasta. I pulled a bottle of wine out of my modest cellar, a white that I thought she would like, and set it to chilling early in the afternoon, then made the pesto so it could set. I placed candles on the kitchen table because I thought it might be nicer to eat in the lower level of the house with a view of the back garden, rather than in the too-formal dining room. I took extra care in grooming before her arrival, making sure I was clean-shaven, that my sideburns didn't need a trim. I decided to change into a new linen dress shirt and trousers, but then realised that perhaps a dress shirt was a little too stuffy. When I traded it for a knit shirt, I felt too sloppy and underdressed. The second knit shirt was no different. In the end I went with the new linen shirt, but left the collar open and loose.

When the clock in the foyer struck eight, my heart skipped a beat. I knew she wouldn't be there straight at the top of the hour, but I hoped it meant she'd be here soon. I didn't want to pace about in the foyer and be too quick to answer when the bell rang, but I also did not want to wait in the lower level and risk not hearing her arrive.

It was thirty-three past the hour when my doorbell rang. I had settled in a somewhat unsettled fashion on the sofa in the front room, busying myself with pretending to read a magazine. A small adrenaline rush washed over me as the bell sounded. I knew I was being ridiculous, but could not help it.

I made myself calmly stand from the sofa, close the magazine and set it down. I ensured my shirt was neatly tucked in all around, double-checked my reflection in a decorative mirror, then went to the door and swung it open.

I was greeted with a smile and a soft "Hi."

As I expected, it was Bridget, but even still, seeing her took my breath away a little. She was dressed as if for work, but had apparently taken a moment to brush out her hair, put on some pale pink lipstick. At last I found my voice. "Hi. Please, come in."

"Thanks." I closed the door behind her as she came in. "I was so afraid I was at the wrong house. I must have stood out there for five minutes before ringing." I smiled. She had her holdall from work, looked around for somewhere to put it. I indicated that she should feel free to set it on the chair by the occasional table.

"Here, let me help you with your jacket." It was a grey tweed jacket, tailored to fit closely to her form, with which she was wearing a matching skirt that I noticed only then came up over her knee.

"Thanks." She flipped the button then turned so I could assist in lowering if over her shoulders. Under that jacket was a white shirt, possibly silk if my knuckles were any judge, that became sheerer the longer my eyes lingered on it. I blinked then looked away as she turned to me; I spun to hang her jacket on the coat rack.

"You look nice," she said, taking the words from my mouth. My eyes went to her. The blouse she wore was office-appropriate, yet soft and feminine… and sexy.

"You don't look like you've been working all day and into the night, that's for sure," I said. I watched with a mixture of surprise and amusement as she slipped out of her shoes, heeled with a modest lift. She caught my expression as she raised her head again.

"What?"

"Why are you taking your shoes off?"

Her own expression suggested she thought I'd gone mad. "I don't want to scuff up your floor and get your carpet dirty. Why else?"

"Have you been tromping through pig wallows?" I joked. "You can leave them on if you like."

"I don't know," she said uncertainly. "It just wouldn't feel right."

In solidarity, I took off my shoes as well. She smiled, then laughed. At least I had nice socks on and not some bizarre mismatched pair grabbed in the haze of dressing this morning. As I came near to her again, I realised that I had not seen her without something on her feet to make her taller. In stocking feet she was barely to my shoulder. What she lacked in height, though, she made up for in personality tenfold.

I brought myself out of contemplation and to the present. "Come on. I only have to bring the water to a boil, cook the pasta, and we're ready to eat."

She smiled once more, small, a bit shy, very sweet indeed. "Sounds great."

I indicated the stairs down to the kitchen. She looked at me with another odd expression; I couldn't quite figure out what warranted it. "Go ahead," I gestured. "Ladies first."

"Okay," she said, doubt in her voice. By the time she got to the bottom step, however, her attitude had turned around. "Ohhhh," she said. "It's lovely down here." It was still twilight, light enough to see my back garden (impressive for London city standards) but dark enough to see the stars just beginning to emerge.

"Have a seat, be comfortable," I said, thinking she might like to sit on the cushy sofa; instead, she went over to the windows to peer out.

"You'd never know we were in the heart of London, practically," she said in something of a wistful tone. The trees did help to mask that fact. "Just beautiful."

"I think that was one of the reasons that drew me to this house," I said, which was true, though it occurred to me that I didn't often take the time to fully appreciate it.

The water rumbled to a boil in very short order. I put the pasta in, set the timer, and walked to where she stood.

"Would you care for some wine?"

She gasped. I'd visibly startled her.

"Sorry," I apologised.

"No, it's okay. I was just a bit lost in thought."

I brought my brows together just she turned to me. It was her voice, only… "What was that?" I asked, unable to keep the incredulity out of my own voice. "An American accent?" I guessed that it was a line from some television show or film with which I had absolutely no familiarity.

She fought a smile. "Yeah," she said in a teasing tone. "I've been practising."

"That," I said with a chuckle, "is the worst I've ever heard."

To my surprise she playfully stuck the tip of her tongue out at me. "Surely not the worst," she said. "Besides, what do you know? Anyway, I'd love that wine."

I went over, removed the bottle from the refrigerator, uncorked it then poured wine into two glasses I'd previously taken from the cupboard. I handed one to her, and we touched the glasses in a little toast.

"To your mother," I said, then took a sip.

I seemed to be good at making her look at me like I was a madman. "What?"

"Well, if not for her insistence we might not have met at all."

She smirked a little. "Ah."

The pasta timer went off, so I excused myself to tend to it, invited her to sit down while I drained, rinsed and plated the pasta, then spooned a generous portion of pesto on top. I brought the plates to the table. She looked both pleased and apprehensive at the same time. I asked if something was wrong.

"No," she said. "I _love_ pesto pasta. Unfortunately my hips and tummy love it even more."

I resisted saying how she should embrace rather than eschew the pasta in future if it supported her figure. "I probably should have asked what you preferred."

She grinned guiltily. "This is just fine." She tried a spiral. "Oh, fantastic. Did you make the sauce?"

"Yes," I said.

"Oh, it's very good." The enthusiasm with which she put the next forkful into her mouth underscored the point.

After a few minutes of silent, solid eating, I sipped my wine again and said, fixing her with my most penetrating gaze, "So tell me all about yourself, Bridget Jones."

She tilted her head a bit, blinked, then smiled. With a challenge in her eyes, she said, "Well, born in Buckingham, moved to tiny little Grafton Underwood when I was eight or nine, fled town to go to University of Bangor, then ended up in London after graduating."

"And when was that?"

She was clearly doing some mental mathematics. "Must have been… eleven years ago?"

"And how long have you worked at—" I hated to say the name because it made me think of Daniel. "—Pemberley Press?"

"Just a few months now," she said.

"Where were you before that?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, bah," she said; there was a slight unease in her voice. "A tiny little newspaper you wouldn't have heard of."

"What did you graduate with?"

"What?"

I didn't think it that difficult a question. "From university."

"Oh, right, sorry," she said. "English."

"So how did you end up working in Publicity?"

She forked three more pesto-laden corkscrews with more force than strictly necessary. "It's just the way things turned out," she said. "Sometimes it happens. I mean, did you always want to be a barrister?"

"Yes," I responded without hesitation.

"So you never had a moment in which you thought you might do better as a doctor, an advertising genius, a fish monger?"

I laughed. "No."

She stared at me. "You're a freak."

I laughed harder. "Thank you, I think."

She turned crimson. "I mean that in a good way." Her features softened. "You're very sure of yourself. I like that about you."

I felt a bit embarrassed, myself. "Thank you." I poked at the pasta with my fork, then set it down. I had to say what I was feeling, despite how lousy I was at expressing my emotions. "I like that you… you are who you are. I don't feel like you're showing me only what you want me to see."

She smiled; I couldn't tell if she was still blushing, or blushing again. It was fetching. "That's really sweet," she said.

"It's true," I said.

"I can't say I've ever heard it before," she said.

"I find that hard to believe."

She didn't say anything more for the few minutes it took her to eat the rest of the pasta. When she set her fork down on the plate with a clunk, she picked up and drained her wine, set it down again, and sighed. "That was excellent," she said. She raised those blue eyes of hers to look at me, offering me one of those lovely little smiles of hers. "Maybe we can have some coffee, too."

It occurred to me only then that I had not thought to prepare a dessert. "Sure," I said, though my mind was racing. "I'll have to check—I may have some biscuits in the cupboard."

She chuckled. "Don't strain yourself."

I remembered the patisserie down the road, one that had late hours, which I had noted on my way home from the office on many a night. "Or…" I began.

"Or what?"

"How do you feel about a little walk?"

Her brows raised. "I'm listening."

"Cannoli, chocolate éclairs, cardamom pistachio cake…"

"Oh," she said, "yes, please."

The way in which she said that was sweetly adorable and at the same time incredibly alluring. "I figure we'll be in the mood for dessert by the time we get there."

"Okay."

I cleared the table, shoving the plates directly into the dishwasher. She brought the wine glasses. We then went upstairs, stepped into our shoes; I helped her into her jacket, slipped on my mack to cut the chill of the evening, and we headed out the front door.

The patisserie I had in mind was literally around the corner and down a block, though as we walked I began to have doubts about whether or not they would still be open. I guess this minor worry translated into some kind of deep contemplation, because I felt her hand on my arm, then she asked, "Penny for your thoughts?"

I laughed low in my throat. "Nothing deep and meaningful," I said. "Just worried they might not actually be open."

She slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow. "Well, if they aren't, we've at least had a nice walk of it."

As we got nearer, I was glad to see they were in fact still open, because I didn't want our date to end. She picked out a slice of tiramisu and got a decaf cappuccino, while I opted for a lemon chiffon cake and a hot black tea, also decaffeinated; I did not need to make going to sleep any more difficult than I suspected it already would be, since I promised myself I would take her home after dessert with nothing more than a goodnight kiss.

"This was a great way to end a very long day… a long week, actually," she said, cradling the cup in her hands, then lifting it to take a sip.

It made me wonder about what had happened on Monday, and I was almost tempted to ask her, except I thought it might send the mood plummeting to something far too black. "I'm glad you agreed to join me."

She met my eyes with her own. "I've already told you I like you a lot, Mark," she said, reaching her hand out to cover mine across the table. "There's no reason on earth why I wouldn't have."

I wondered how this statement tracked with our previous dinner date on Wednesday of last week, those things she said she needed to straighten out. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Excuse me."

There was a voice to my right, a young male who looked like he was in his mid-twenties at best. He was gazing with uncomfortable intensity at Bridget.

"May I help you?" I asked, when this boy did not continue.

His eyes did not leave her. "Aren't you Rose?"

"I'm sorry," she said. "You must have me confused with someone else."

"But you look just like—"

"I believe the lady said you have her confused with someone else," I said in my most threatening voice, rising from my seat to my full height; I was a good ten centimetres or so taller than this upstart. "I'll ask you to leave us in peace."

The boy left, and I sat down. She had gone quite sombre. Her dessert was only half-eaten, her cappuccino barely touched. "I think I'd like to go," she said in a quavering voice.

I wasn't sure what had precipitated such a rapid turnaround. Most people don't react in such a way to a simple case of mistaken identity. "It's all right," I said, taking her hand again, squeezing it gently. "I know you really want to finish that tiramisu."

She cracked a bit of a smile. "I suppose I do."

After finishing things up we walked back towards my house. About three steps out of the patisserie, I felt her fingers brush against mine. I turned my hand in order to accommodate her silent request, and we held hands the entire walk home.

"I'll go in and get your bag," I said as we approached my house, "and take you home."

After a few silent moments, she replied, "Yes, that's probably best."

She followed me in quietly when I ducked into the foyer, such that when I turned with her bag in hand I nearly walked into her. "Here you are," I said, handing it over.

"Thanks." She slung it onto her shoulder. "I suppose I… we should go."

What I really wanted to do was kiss her, carry her upstairs and make love to her, but I knew I had to stick to the promise I'd made to myself. "Yes." I placed my hand on her back to usher her out to the car.

Our car ride was in silence, not an uncomfortable one, but rather crackling with anticipation at that goodnight kiss. I sensed she was looking forward to it as much as I.

Of course I walked her to her door. With her keys in hand, standing on the stoop, she turned around to look up at me. "Thanks again for a lovely evening."

"You're welcome."

I bent just as she raised on her toes a little and our lips met, igniting a kiss that caused me to stagger back a little; to centre myself I reached forward and took her in my arms, with the effect of pulling her hard against me and triggering yet more passion between us.

I'm sure it wasn't more than a few minutes, though they felt like hours, when we pushed away from one another. She looked even more beautiful than I thought possible. "I'd really like to see you again," she whispered.

I nodded. "How's tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is fantastic. Would like nothing more."

God, she was sultry as she said it. It took all of my self-control to simply step back. "How about if I pick you up for lunch? Say, eleven?"

"Okay. I'll see you then."

She stepped forward, put her hands on my shoulders, and gave me another quick kiss. "Goodbye."

I waited for her to get back into the building before retreating to my vehicle.

…

I was determined to think of something out of the ordinary for lunch with Bridget. I stayed up far too late that night on my computer trying to find somewhere that wasn't too far a drive, yet offered great scenery, peace and quiet, and maybe a little bit of romance. I was drawn to the country, though not to our hometown, rather southward into beautiful lands I hadn't visited in far too long. The longer I searched and clicked, the more I became convinced Guildford was the perfect spot to go. It was only one hour out of town, brimming with charming vistas, and home to a castle, Guildford Keep, whose gardens were extraordinary.

I arrived at the agreed upon time, and got out to ring the bell. "I'll be right down," came her voice from the intercom. "I promise."

"Dress for outdoors," I warned.

After a beat, she said, "Okay."

Another five minutes passed before that lower door opened. She looked lovely clad in a sleeveless cotton sundress, white with pink rosebuds, that swept past her knees; low white flat shoes that looked comfortable for walking; those pink sunglasses I remembered from the polo match; and a white straw boater in her hands. "Hope this does in a pinch," she said. "I had a completely different outfit on."

"It's gorgeous," I said quite without thinking. I saw her cheeks tint with colour.

We walked to my car and without fanfare were off winding towards the outskirts of London in a south-westerly direction. I had picked up a cappuccino for her, a strong black coffee for myself, and indicated as such by pointing towards the car's cup holders. "One for the road," I said.

She chuckled. "Thanks." She picked it up and took a sip, glancing out of the window, falling silent. I was feeling rough after my search into the late hours, but was determined not to let it ruin this outing.

Just as I was turning off of Clapham High Street, she asked, "So where are we going?"

"Don't you like surprises?" I asked, glancing towards her.

"Depends on the surprise," she said, then added with a smirk, "Reindeer jumpers, no."

"I would hope this would be considered the opposite of reindeer jumpers."

"Fantastic," she said. "I'm sure I'll like it a lot."

I could tell the further and further we edged towards the outskirts, the more curious she got.

"Care to hazard a guess?" I asked.

"What?"

"As to where we're heading."

"I really haven't the faintest."

I felt triumphant already, and we hadn't even gotten there yet.

We didn't talk much, but I didn't feel we needed to. She placed her hand over mine on the gearshift and curled her fingers around my hand. I looked to her again. She smiled back.

It was about three-quarters of the way there that I heard her say my name.

"Yes?" I said.

"At the risk of sounding completely cliché, are we almost there?"

I chuckled. "Yes."

"I'm just getting a bit peckish, is all."

I grinned. I had even scoped out a nice place for lunch, a pub called The Keep which was not too far from the castle, and this pub even had a courtyard. "Hope you're up for some good pub food."

"Mmm," she said.

As we passed into the town, it became evident that we were driving towards the castle keep. I heard her make an awed little sound. "A castle?" she said.

"Guildford Castle, to be precise." I headed immediately for a car park near the castle; the pub I'd picked out was practically around the corner. I paid to park there all day.

"Well, colour me surprised," she said with a grin. "And in a good way, indeed."

We ate under an awning in the courtyard. We weren't in the full flush of summer, but it was getting warm enough that sitting in the full sun wouldn't be so good even if she were wearing a hat. Lunch was fish and chips, a pint of bitter (for me) and hard cider (for her). The food was good, certainly not exotic, but her company was all that mattered to me.

"So I take it the pub is not the true reason for coming all this way," she said, the effects of the cider a bit evident as she swiped a chip through some malt vinegar.

"Well, there's not one true reason," I said. "It was more of a total package sort of thing. Smallish town in the country, good food, a castle and its grounds…"

"Oh, is the castle next then?"

I sipped my ale and nodded.

"Oh goody," she said. "A real castle."

We finished our food, I paid the bill, and she put her boater and sunglasses back on as we walked out onto the street. I was thankful the brim of her hat was not as wide as the one she wore at the polo match.

She took my hand again as we walked.

The gardens were everything the website had promised and more. We didn't say much as we walked down the paths past the flowers, though I did release her hand in order to put my arm around her shoulders and pull her close to me. I felt her bring her arm up and around my waist. The weather was beautiful; the sky was cerulean blue without a cloud in the sky; the breeze was cool and plentiful. It was indeed a perfect day.

We found a bench to sit on in the shade of a broad tree. For a May weekend day, the gardens were quite empty. I felt like we had the whole place to ourselves. I still had my arm about her shoulders; she took the hat off so that she could sit close to me and not hit me in the neck with it.

"I'm glad you had this idea," she said, removing her sunglasses and leaning against my collarbone. I could hear her, feel her, take in a deep breath, then exhale slowly. "To get away from the city and from everything that has been making me crazy."

I rested my chin on her hair, and the overwhelming redolence filled my senses, whichever perfume or shampoo it was that she used. "Mm," I said in agreement.

"You must have charmed quite a few ladies with this nice little excursion," she teased.

"No," I said, a little more sharply than I intended. "I mean, you're the only one." I sighed, closing my eyes. "I haven't had much luck with women, to be honest."

"I don't believe it."

"It's true," I said. "The occasional date, I suppose, and then I got married… and after that fiasco, I've been a little…"

"Gun-shy?" she supplied.

I chuckled. "Yes, I suppose. The only women I seemed to attract were the sort… well, you met Natasha at the book launch. They were only interested in my perceived prestige and position—"

I stopped speaking. I had to. I suddenly found myself with my cheek cupped in her hand, her lips pressed to mine and kissing me with the sort of abandon not usually seen in a public garden. After a few moments she came to her senses and pulled away, stroking my face with her fingertips. "I don't care a whit about any of that," she said, unflinchingly looking into my eyes. "I like you for who you are. You're a kind and good man, and tender, and oh God, a gentleman the likes of which I didn't know still existed…"

Sod the public park. I bent and kissed her once more, thanked the heavens above for the shade, the out-of-the-way location of the bench, the sparsely populated garden in general; I felt very much unlike the gentleman she'd just proclaimed me to be as I assaulted her with kisses again and again.

And then I stopped. It was senseless to carry anything further. We were in Guildford, for God's sake. We had a drive back to London. And I thought it was still too soon to sleep with her. I pulled her into an embrace, stroking her hair.

"We should walk around some more," she said quietly. I wondered if she realised I'd needed just that amount of time to calm myself.

"Yes," I said. "There's a lot more to see."

I stood and looked around to see if anyone had seen us; she slipped her sunglasses on and put her hat back into place. When I looked to her once more, she was smiling with fondness back at me. She reached out her hand for me to take, and we strolled around some more, stopping to look at the broad variety of flowers. During our excursion, when she crouched to get a closer look, I was inspired to pull out my mobile and snap a few photos of her. She looked up at me and smiled shyly (I continued snapping pictures as she did). She then stood upright and put her arm around my waist. "Take our picture," she said. I hoped my aim was true as I hit the trigger; previewing in the little window indicated I had framed us adequately well.

It was near to five when we left for London. It seemed silly to part just in time for dinner, so she invited me up, offered to spring for pizza. I accepted. We sat together on the sofa and watched a film as we ate the pizza, drank a little wine. I admit that we indulged in a little more snogging; my hand of its own free will found and covered her breast, and as I pressed into her, I could feel the hard point of her nipple, could hear and feel the sharp intake of breath before she kissed me even more ardently. My hand was also so bold as to reach down and cup then press into her arse; I could feel the hem of her pants through the light cotton of the dress. I was strong, though, and held tight to my promise not to take her to bed, though I was sorely, _sorely_ tempted. After a de-escalation of passions, I gave her a gentle kiss goodnight, stroking her cheek and hair. I asked when I could see her again, and she suggested lunch on Wednesday. I agreed. It was then I left for home, about twelve hours after I'd originally come to pick her up. I felt it was one of the more satisfying days in my life.

I would wonder later if I got a day like that specifically to sustain me through what was to happen next.


	4. Chapter 4: The Naked Truth

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 6,017  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 4: The Naked Truth

As I said before, I did not want to be too overly persistent. For our next date, lunch on Wednesday, I called on Monday and suggested a nice little place called The Herne, to which I had gone once in the company of Natasha and others from work. Natasha had hated it, which boosted my confidence that Bridget would love it. Indeed, she seemed excited to see it. I left it at that.

On Tuesday night, to calm my nerves about lunch the following day, I went for a jog. As fate would have it, the usual route I took was barred from access due to a broken water main, so I took an alternative route. This route took me past a flurry of retail stores, among them a store selling new and used compact discs and DVDs.

As my gaze flitted over the front window, something caught my attention, stopping me dead in my tracks: the entire display was dedicated to a film, and on the cover of the DVD release appeared to be Bridget's eyes staring back up at me. Still panting from the effort of my jog, I stared as if I had just gone completely mad.

_At the Edge of the World_ was the picture's name. It was the same one Giles had been going on about.

I immediately went inside, gravitating towards the display. "First time on DVD in the UK," chirped the overly attentive clerk.

"Thanks," I murmured. I flipped the case over, my eyes scanning over the tiny print at the bottom with the technical details and the cast list. I didn't see "Bridget Jones" on there… however, there was a "Bridget Cavendish."

I found myself taking the DVD to the cashier to pay for it. "Have you seen it before?" asked the clerk. "Really good."

"Do you know anything about this girl…" I pointed to the eyes as I said the name.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "She was the daughter or something, not too big a role, but man, she caught Hollywood's attention big time. Bridget Cavendish."

I felt the bottom of my stomach drop out.

I handed over the money and left the store, aborting the rest of my run and returning home directly. I did not even stop long enough to wash up. I tore open the DVD package and put the disc in.

I barely breathed as I watched the film. The first time I saw the character of the daughter, Sue, I blinked because I couldn't believe my eyes. There on my screen was Bridget, same blue eyes, same pink lips, though looking haunted and gaunt as the character required and speaking in an American accent. I sat back, feeling completely winded. Had I just fallen into an alternate universe?

I stopped the picture partway through and dashed for my computer. I wasted no time in plugging the name "Bridget Cavendish" into a search engine. The results that returned to me shocked me to the core.

Born and raised in upstate New York, thirty-two years of age, she was the third of three children, the only girl and the only one to go into the performing arts. Appeared in several independent films as the lead actress before landing the role of Sue in _At the Edge of the World_ about seven years ago, one which had catapulted her to fame. Went on to do more independent films plus had a major role in a big-budget production. Her character's name in that was Rose. I remembered with a sick feeling in my gut the boy in the patisserie. Her reaction made sense now.

She was no flash in the pan, either; she had gotten her big break at age seventeen, had already won many prestigious awards and critical acclaim, mostly in America. I realised as I scanned down the list of films that I had seen at least two of them, not realising of course who she was at the time.

She was apparently America's sweetheart. And, it noted, she was currently on location filming a new picture in which she was the female lead. Filming was happening, according to the website, somewhere in England.

I made the mistake of next doing an image search, because the first image that appeared was of her in a wedding dress, hair a long tumble of curls, and she was standing with a beaming smile on her face next to a very handsome man, one to whom the media apparently affectionately referred as "X": Xavier Desjardins, a brooding, dark-haired, hazel-eyed actor, French-born but quite at ease in Los Angeles as a hot young celebrity/film star. I had never seen one of his blockbusters, but I already knew of him from an exceptional French film of his from early in his career; that was how I had recognised him when I'd seen his picture on her computer desktop.

They had met on the set of her earliest film, had more or less grown up together in the world of film acting, in Hollywood, were friends and companions on many occasions. They had both had a string of well-documented relationships with other people, but had only gotten together, romantically speaking, around the time of _At the Edge of the World_. They were married about two years ago. There was no indication that this status had changed.

I sat back without remembering doing so, my fingers pressing into the corners of my eyes. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind that this actress was the same woman I'd grown to know as Bridget Jones. I had spent too much time looking at her, studying her eyes, the dimple of her smile, to be anything but one-hundred-percent certain. I felt a myriad of emotions: betrayed, confused, angry. If this was research for some kind of role, I was not amused to be part of the experiment.

Not to mention, she was married.

I picked up the telephone and rang up her number, but she did not answer. I regretted that I'd not had the foresight to get her mobile number; I wondered now if she had not offered it to me on purpose. I did not leave a message, because I knew it would be a mistake to do so. Messages demanding answers never went over well on the answerphone.

I slept fitfully that night, but not for the reason I initially thought I might.

I arrived at The Herne early, got a table in the corner of the courtyard for some privacy. My stomach was turning over with sheer nerves. She was late as usual, wearing her pink sunglasses and a summery work outfit. "Hi!" she said.

Then she got a good look at my haggard face, my piercing gaze.

"Mark," she said. "What's wrong?"

"Who," I said quietly and with emphasis, "are you?"

"What?"

"It's a fair question, Bridget. Who are you, really?"

"I don't understand."

My voice began to rise. "I don't know what there is to understand. Are you Bridget Jones, or Bridget Cavendish?"

Her eyes went wide; it was harsher than I had spoken to her even on New Year's Day. "Mark, please, keep it down. I—"

"You what?" I interrupted, my voice reverting to cool ice. "You were lying to me in the name of your craft? Was I part of whatever it is you're doing here in London? I made some very interesting discoveries last night. Were you planning on telling me before or after we slept together?"

"What do you mean, tell—Oh God, you didn't know?" she asked, covering her mouth, clearly astonished. I saw tears well in her eyes. "I thought you knew me, who I really am. I thought you'd knew I was researching, _living_ a role. I thought that you were just…" She faded before adding almost sheepishly, "Playing along with quizzing me on my back story and all that. I mean, what was I supposed to think when I asked you not to tell anyone at the polo match and you said you wouldn't? What on earth did you think I was asking?"

"If you thought I knew," I shot back, deftly avoiding mentioning I had once thought she was a kept mistress of Henry's, "why do you always speak with the accent?"

When she spoke again, her voice was soft and infused with that odd-sounding (to me) American accent. "Speaking that way had to be second nature. I had to do it all the time. I thought you understood."

All of the strange occurrences and conversations were whizzing through my head: Henry (who _was_ he really?) and his "Well done" (at fooling me?); the polo-match dress (and indeed, her very presence there); what I knew now to be a slip into her native accent when we'd had dinner at my house; even the bloody fortune cookies. I cringed to think of some of things I had thought, had _said_, about how genuine and honest she seemed, how she wasn't showing me only what she wanted me to see. I countered, "I wasn't playing along with anything. I thought you were the daughter of Pam and Colin Jones of Grafton Underwood, baccalaureate degree in English and employee of Pemberley Press. Do they even have a daughter? Do you even have a job with—"

"Please," she said, holding her hand up. "Not here, not so loud. Let's go, and we can discuss this in private. It really isn't what you think."

Something about her voice, the accent with which she spoke now, made me feel completely off-kilter. "We talk about this here," I said firmly, "and I'll decide whether I ever want to see you again in any context whatsoever."

She reverted to the English accent I had grown accustomed to as if sensing my unease when she spoke again. "Mark, whatever role I was playing, whatever I was doing, to immerse myself in London life and culture," she said, "everything with _you_ was real."

I set my jaw firm. I felt as if my pride had been wounded beyond repair. "Everything with you I _thought_ was real," I said, "but how the hell can I ever know for sure? What about your _husband_?"

She looked down. "Let's just please go."

I stood, and it was unfortunately only then that I noticed we had attracted the attention of everyone in the pub. Some of them had evidently recognised her, and were pulling out camera-equipped mobile phones and snapping pictures. "Goodbye, Bridget," I said. "Whoever you really are."

With that I left. I was wounded, knew I was lashing out, but didn't care. I had finally let someone in past my defences, finally allowed myself to fall in love, and she had made a complete fool of me.

…

One complication to this situation was that one or more of the patrons at The Herne that day had sold or given the photos from our row to the papers, which began circulating the very next day. I would learn later gossip headlines blared that America's Sweetheart was seeing someone on the side; there was rampant speculation on the nature of our argument, whether I was demanding she leave her husband. I was sure it would be no time at all before they tracked down who I was. It made me sick to my stomach. I was a private person in the best of times. I did not need my mistake to be trumpeted to the world at large.

My telephone rang, which did not surprise me; I had already seen the story and the small photo in the_ Times_. I figured the lines would light up as soon as papers were delivered to friends and relatives. I dreaded picking it up. I dreaded it more when I realised it was my mother.

"Mark," she said. "I've just gotten my newspaper. What on earth is going on?"

I went briefly over the major points of the story, that we'd met up again in London, had seen each other a few times and had gotten pretty close.

She interrupted me. "But she's married."

"Mother," I said. "The argument at lunch was because I was furious I had only just learned she was _not_ Pam and Colin's daughter."

She went silent, so silent I thought the line had disconnected. "You thought—"

"Yes," I said. It occurred to me after the fact what she had said about Bridget being married. "And are you saying you knew the whole time that I was being set up with a fraudulent childhood friend?"

"No, no. Let me explain. New Year's was supposed to be a test, not for you, but for her. Jamie Jones, Pam and Colin's actual son, works for the production studio and offered to let her come visit for the New Year. Gave her a little cover story and let her mingle at the party to observe mannerisms, traditions, and practice her accent and vocabulary. You were so put off by her, though, that I was afraid to tell you the truth. Besides, I never expected you'd see her again."

"Everyone else at the party knew?" Even as I asked, I knew they must have. As the Jones' closest friends, they would have all known Pam and Colin had no daughter.

"I'm sorry," Elaine said to me. "They all thought she was just an English actress friend come to stay at the house with Jamie. I knew you didn't remember how many children they did or didn't have. I'm afraid the whole setup scenario was my idea, and once the seed of being 'Pam and Colin's daughter' was planted I guess she ran with it. I never meant it to hurt you so badly, Mark."

My mother has always been a wonderful, caring, loving woman, and there's nothing she could do that would ever make me angry at her on a long-term basis. At this moment, I _was_ a bit angry, both at her and at myself; I had told no one that I had started seeing Bridget over the last three weeks, and if I had said something to my mother, things never would have gotten so badly out of control.

I sighed heavily. "I know you didn't."

"So what did she have to say for herself?"

"I didn't really stay to find out," I said. "She told me she thought I knew who she really was."

After a pause, she said in a portentous tone, "_Ohhhh__._ I may have an explanation for that. I told her I was going to ask you afterwards how you thought she did. That would imply you would have been told the truth afterwards. It's my fault—like I said, you were in such a bad mood that I didn't want to bring it up, and she'd gotten plenty of other comments from other people there that I guess she never missed not getting yours."

I shook my head, ready to be rid of the entire situation. "As I said, I didn't wait to hear the rationale."

Elaine was silent. "You'll go to her and talk to her, won't you?"

"I don't see the point," I said, and it was true. I had been hoodwinked. I was not sure I could trust her again.

"But you liked her?"

I sighed again. "I did."

"Maybe she liked you too. You should at least try. I talked to her for a good long while on New Year's and found her to be utterly charming, totally genuine."

Genuine. The word stabbed pain through my heart, particularly as she did not tell me about her husband; I had to wonder which definition of 'genuine' was in play here. However, I could see there was no way out of this conversation that didn't involve me agreeing, or at least—

"I'll think about it," I said resignedly.

"That's all I ask."

We said our goodbyes; I hung up the phone and wondered if my entire day would consist of inbound phone calls and outbound explanations.

When I arrived to work, I realised I'd been wrong; in addition to phone calls, it also garnered me a phalanx of paparazzi outside of Inns of Court (which I pushed my way through in silence) and surprised and accusatory looks from the people I worked with.

"Mark, old chap!" said Jeremy with expected interest. "Getting a piece of Hollywood action, eh?"

I remained stoic. "I didn't know who she really was. She was in character."

"A likely story," he said, "to cover up the fact that she's married."

With friends like these—

Giles came running up to me completely winded from his efforts, his face pink, his cheeks puffed up in a grin. "I _knew_ it! I _knew_ she looked familiar! My God, man!"

"I don't know how many times I have to say this," I said icily. "I did not know who she really was."

"You must have known." A petulant female voice. Natasha. "That explains _everything_."

I gave up at this point. "I'm going to get some work done. I suggest you all do the same."

I stalked away, went into my office and closed the door. I did not need to be embroiled in an avoidable personal scandal like this, not with the Aghani case looming before me. My credibility was going to be in tatters if my name started appearing in gossip columns.

I was grateful that I had no court appearances that day, did not have to do anything but research, reading and a few phone conferences with well-known associates and clients who knew better than to ask me about this current situation.

…

My mobile telephone rang at six-thirty in the evening just as I was coming in my front door, which was curiously but blessedly free of photo-snapping interlopers. My mother was on the line.

"Mark, are you near a television?"

"Why?"

"Put on Channel Five."

The urgency in her voice made me think that perhaps half of Europe was under attack and that Channel Five had the scoop. I dashed to the sitting room, grabbed the remote control, jabbed at the power button, then switched it until I found the right channel.

It was the start of my mother's guilty pleasure, the celebrity entertainment show _Live From Studio Five_. There, larger than life, was Bridget in close up. This show was apparently carrying the feed for a press conference (or whatever it was), which explained why I did not have anyone camped out on my front walk.

"—to end all speculation. I've been in London researching a role for the upcoming film _Double Take_, have been for the last month and a half." She kept glancing down to her hands, as if reading from notes on a card. "Before I left—some months ago, actually—my husband and I had some very serious discussions about our marriage, our future. We kept this under wraps because it was a personal matter, and no one's business but ours." She took a steadying breath. "However. In light of yesterday's events and of the grossly inaccurate things that have been said as a result I feel we must clear up some grave misconceptions. We agreed that while we were still very good friends and always would be, we had grown apart, we were no longer the same people we were when we first met on my first movie, our first movie together, and we wanted different things now." The camera pulled back to reveal Xavier was beside her; his hand was resting lightly and reassuringly on her waist. "We had decided we should split, but would put off anything concrete until I was finished with _Double Take_. With what happened yesterday, I thought it best to explain so that everyone would know these events have nothing to do with our splitting up. The final decision to begin divorce proceedings was made nearly two weeks ago." Xavier nodded in agreement beside her. She paused, then looked directly into the camera, seemingly directly into my soul. "The gentleman with whom I was having lunch yesterday, a friend I'd made since coming to London, did not factor into the decision. The split was had already happened… and it's completely amicable."

"I can vouch for this," Xavier said, "and would like everyone to know that she did nothing wrong, did nothing behind my back at all. She had my blessing for whichever path she chose to take."

There was a bit more that was said—no questions were taken—before they tearfully hugged and pecked kisses onto one another's cheeks. The telecast press conference ended, and the presenter (in the studio) went into 'restate everything that was just said' mode. I switched the set off. All I could think was: _I am the biggest arse in existence._ Putting the conclusion of her marriage into motion was the 'thing' she'd had to straighten out. My wounded pride had smothered the feelings I'd had, feelings that resurfaced in full when I realised she had been proceeding as carefully as she could. All with Xavier's knowledge… and as he'd said, his blessing.

Faintly I heard a muffled voice calling my name. I realised I still had my mother on the mobile, which was still in my hand, down at my side. I raised it to my ear again. "Yes," I said without waiting for her to say a thing. "I'll call right now."

I disconnected the call, then punched in the telephone number I had for Bridget.

"The number you have dialled has not been recognised. Please check the number and try again."

Stunned, I tapped the cradle to disconnect the call, then dialled again. I got the same message. It sounded to me like the line had been taken out of service. I decided then and there to go over to her flat.

I took the car for practical reasons: it was faster, and if her building was swarming with the media, I could avoid being accosted myself. As I got nearer, though, I saw that everything was dark and silent, including all windows on the topmost floor of the building. I suspected this meant she was not home, but I got out of my car and rang the buzzer anyway.

"She isn't here."

I whipped around and came face to face with a craggy older man. It wasn't a cold night, but he had for some reason chosen to wear a red and black winter cap with ear flaps.

"Oh," he added. "You're him."

I looked down. "Yes."

"Yeah," the man reiterated. "Well, she isn't here."

"You said."

"Heard all kinds of noise this morning, bumping, thumping, scraping, taking things up and down the stairs," he went on. "Was trying to nap. I don't think she's coming back."

From the sound of it, the man had probably heard a hasty move-out. I wondered where she was, where she could be. How I might find her. I thanked him and left; as I drove back to my house, put together a simple dinner for myself, I came to the horrifying conclusion that I was going to have to ask a favour from the one person in the world I least wanted to contact.

I waited until many moments after I'd finished eating, until the alcohol in my glass of wine had had a chance to filter into my system, before I called Daniel Cleaver.

"Strike me pink! Mark Darcy, as I live and breathe," was how he answered the phone, feigning surprise. The sarcasm was tangible. "I can't _imagine_ what's led you to my proverbial doorstep."

"I need to talk to her," I said, avoiding verbal barbs or parries and getting straight to the point, "and she was supposedly working for you. You had to have known. How can I reach her?"

"I'm pretty sure you're the last person she wants to speak to," he retorted.

"Cleaver," I said. I did not want to resort to begging, but I would if I had to. "There's been a terrible misunderstanding."

"Yes, and true to form, rather than listen to the other side of the story, you bolted off to go and lick your wounds."

I knew to what he was alluding. I had refused to talk to him after what had happened with my wife. I did not want to engage him regarding this right now, either. "Information. Yes or no, Cleaver."

I heard him sigh. "Fine. If you had to resort to calling me, you must really want it. Hold on." I heard some rustling, mild cursing, then he gave me the name of the hotel, The Montagu. "I can't find the concierge's number off hand, but you're clever. I'm sure you can find it."

I scribbled the name down on the pad by my telephone. "I do appreciate it," I said in a low tone.

"You're welcome," he said, then disconnected.

Yes, I did resent owing Cleaver a favour, but I had what I needed… and actually, this action might just have made the score even. I put Cleaver out of my thoughts and immediately set to looking up the number on the hotel's website, then wasted no time in dialling. A friendly woman by the name of Carol answered the line.

"Carol, I hope you can help me. I am trying to reach Bridget—" It was difficult for me to think of her as this. "—Cavendish." There was no response, so I added, "Daniel Cleaver from Pemberley Press let me know she was here."

"I see," said Carol. "And who's this?"

"Mark Darcy," I said. I was about to explain I was the man from the photo, but apparently I did not need to.

"Mr Darcy, I can't confirm or deny she's here," Carol said, as if it was something she was required to say, because I'd just said I knew Bridget was there. "One moment."

I was placed on hold, forced to listen to an appalling version of a Beatles tune when the music suddenly ended.

"I'm sorry, I am not able to put that call through."

"Is she not answering?"

There were many moments of silence. "I'm sorry, sir," Carol admitted. "She's refusing to take the call."

To be honest, I had been half-expecting this. It did not wound me any less. "Thank you."

And then I hung up. It did me no good to turn into a shouting, raving menace, not when I had more effective tactics at my disposal. I phoned the florist again, placed an order for delivery first thing in the morning. I only hoped that Carol (or her replacement) could sympathise with my efforts.

Before I put my mobile away, my eyes flitted over the icons on the screen. The one labelled 'Photos' caught my eye. I navigated to the pictures, and the last one I had taken, the one of the two of us by me at arm's length, was the one to come up. I scrolled through them all, landing on the one of her bending over the flower. I smiled; that day in Guildford had been a great day. It also made me sad, and almost made me wish I was still ignorant to the truth.

I tossed and turned all night long. As much as I'd wanted to kick myself for allowing my defences down and letting her in, I felt my mistake in pushing her out again equally acutely.

Early Friday morning, as I was drinking my coffee and eating something for breakfast, I received a phone call. The flower delivery had been refused.

…

It was possibly the most pathetic thing I had done in my life. I did not have any appointments that day, so I made a decision to be more active in this pursuit. I dressed in my nicest suit, took detailed care in my grooming, and went down to the hotel on Montagu Place, just off of Gloucester.

I saw the woman at the concierge, saw her nametag emblazoned 'Carol', just as she saw and obviously recognised me. She was probably in her forties, thin in frame, blunt silver bob, sharp blue eyes. I offered her a smile. I hoped she would not be a tough nut to crack.

"Hello," I said in my kindest tone.

"Mr Darcy," she said smoothly. I couldn't tell if she was feeling inclined to foster a budding romance, or feeling like a guard dog, protective of her hotel's guest.

"I was wondering if you've seen Ms Cavendish today."

"Mr Darcy," she said again. "The flowers were very nice. I'm sorry they had to be sent back."

She was being deliberately evasive. I was feeling impatient. "You know I already know she's taken a room here. Is she here?" As the words left my lips I realised a harder edge was not getting me anywhere. "Carol," I said more gently, leaning forward, lowering my voice, raising my eyes to her. "You've undoubtedly read the story, seen the pictures. We had quite a row in the pub, and I made a big mistake. I really need to speak to her."

Carol met my gaze unflinchingly. She was the first to blink. "I have not seen her today," she said at last. "But I don't spend every moment at this desk."

"Will you ring the room for me?"

"I won't," she said, "because I will not pester our guests when they have already refused contact. And I'm sorry, I can't allow you to wait in the lobby for more than twenty minutes."

I understood. She had given me the parameters by which I could wait and, I hoped, see Bridget. "Thank you."

I took a seat, watched from my perch by the window as clouds gathered, as the rain started to come down, as my twenty minutes ticked away and Bridget did not materialise.

"Mr Darcy, sir," Carol said insistently.

I looked up, nodded. "I'll wait outside."

"It's raining."

"Yes."

"You don't know if she'll even come down, or come back."

"I know. I have to see her."

Her eyes seemed to be searching my face. "If I see her," she said, "I'll send her outside."

At least I had my trusty mack. The rain poured buckets on me, but I stood by a light pole, leaned on it for support, my view of the front door unobstructed. I wished I'd thought to get a hot coffee before my sodden vigil. I caught my own reflection in the glass of the door. I looked like hell. I was soaked to the core, I looked as tired as I felt, but I would stand there as long as it took.

How long it actually was before I saw the door swing open, as the rain began to abate, I wasn't sure. I only saw Bridget emerge from behind the glass doors, dressed down in casual clothes, hair pulled into a pony tail, and she was not made up. "Come in," she said; I hoped it was a prologue to our talking, except she added, "before you attract attention, already. I don't want anyone to know I'm here."

I went into the hotel, shaking my hair out, brushing water from my mack. "Thank you," I said as I passed by her and into the lobby proper, turning again to face her. She looked up at me; I could not read her expression at all. I hoped she might invite me up, but knew it was likely not to be.

"Bridget, I—"

"Not here." Her tone was brusque. She stalked away, and I followed; Carol's eyes were on us the entire time (as well as those of the nameless porters who had appeared as if out of nowhere). We did not go to the lift. We went into a meeting room. She shut the door behind me, turned to face me. I could read her expression now. She was angry.

"I really don't have much to say to you," she said; I could not get used to the American accent. "You had your chance to hear me out, and instead you make a public spectacle and nearly ruin my reputation and career in the process."

"You must know that was not my intention," I said. "I did not mean to lose my temper that way. I certainly did not know you were… an actress incognito. I saw the press conference." _Damage control_, I thought, _and perhaps the only way to get through to me_. "I understand everything now."

Her anger seemed to deflate. "Look," she said, blue eyes again piercing into my soul… and my heart. "I'm here to film a movie. Principal shooting begins on Monday. I have a job to do, it's going to be a difficult role, and I can't be distracted. Do you understand that?"

I knew what she was saying. Stay away.

"Yes," I said. There was so much more I wanted to say, so many apologies I wanted to make, but in the end I pulled my drenched overcoat closed, pulled myself to my full height, and headed towards the door. At the last possible moment, though, I did turn and deliver a parting shot with which to leave her. "It _was_ real," I said. "All of it."

I didn't have to get into detail about what I was saying was 'real'. From the way her expression changed a little, softened, she knew I was alluding to my comment at our last meeting, when I'd indicated, after this bombshell had hit me, that I'd had doubts about whether things with her had been real.

I left, and I did not look back. She did not call for me. She was right, though; she had a job to do, a performance to focus on, and she did not need me complicating things… not to mention that there was a divorce yet to settle, so she couldn't afford to see me without stirring up more publicity in that way. With the big cases I had coming up, I couldn't afford that kind of attention either.

I had expressed, in my way, how I felt now. There was not much more I could do. Time would tell what the next move would be.

…

The press conference seemed to have done the trick; practically overnight the media, the paparazzi, the story itself, disappeared. It didn't hurt that an MP had gotten himself embroiled in some kind of embezzling scheme, which was much juicier than our non-affair affair, and therefore likely to sell more papers and bring in higher ratings. I was thankful for their fickleness.

I had a quiet, introspective weekend, imagining Bridget preparing for filming, reading through lines, costume fittings, whatever it is actors do. I hoped it was all going smoothly for her.

I returned to work on Monday as if nothing had happened at all last week to land my name in the papers linked with a famous American actress, although Jeremy and Giles both seemed to smirk a bit more when they saw me. The day was busy but not eventful, and free from gossip column headlines, which was how I liked my days to be. I didn't speak to my mother until the next day, did so as I sat at my desk, idly flipping through my appointment diary. "Yes, we spoke," I said.

"And how did it go?"

"I was able to explain that I understood the situation better. That what I had felt for her hadn't really changed just because she was not Pam and Colin's daughter." I paused. "She didn't give me a lot of time to talk before she told me to keep my distance so she could work." I realised as my finger traced over the page I'd landed on, one that had the annotation of 'Kafka 6pm' printed neatly on the Tuesday of that week, that it was five weeks to the day since I had encountered Bridget again at the book launch in mid-April.

She did not reply right away. "Well. At least you made an effort. That's what matters. And you know, filming won't last forever," she said sagely. "Perhaps she'll contact you when she's finished."

I fervently hoped the same.


	5. Chapter 5: Intervention

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 7,340  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 5: Intervention

I immersed myself back into my work as I was so good at doing, even on the weekends. If I was busy thinking about my clients and my cases, I wasn't thinking about the pain this had caused me… of my own doing. It was mostly effective, though I did stumble, as if upon emotional landmines, across a few articles regarding Bridget, mostly pertaining to the role she was undertaking. Most of them criticised the choice of an American actress for a quintessentially English character in the mystery/thriller. I could only chuckle to myself and think how completely they would be won over by her, if my interactions with her were any hint. There was also the matter of her past work, with which I decided I needed to become more familiar. Thus I expanded my DVD collection, and made it through them all, save a miniseries, _Portrait of a Lady_, that had never been released on disc and the videotape was out of print and rare.

I was caught off-guard by a telephone call I received three weeks after my last conversation with Bridget.

"Mr Darcy. Mark. I don't know if you remember me," said the caller; in that split-second before he explained, I could only think that his voice seemed familiar but that I could not place it. "It's Henry Shaw. We met through a mutual friend."

Henry, the man whom I'd erroneously and foolishly thought was having an affair with Bridget and providing her with material comforts in exchange. "Of course I remember you. What can I do for you?"

"If you're free tonight," he said, "I'd like to buy you a drink."

I glanced to my clock. Seven in the evening on a Friday night; of course I was free. I was also intrigued as to why Henry wanted to meet me. "Certainly. Name the place."

We agreed to meet within the hour at the same bar at which I had met him about to luncheon with his wife. Since we were meeting for a drink, I phoned for a minicab, and I made it there within the appointed time to find him already at the bar. He stood and offered his hand for a cordial shake. "I took the liberty of ordering you a scotch. You struck me as the type."

I smiled. "Thank you." He had not skimped on the scotch; it was very smooth, very old, if I were to judge correctly. "To what do I owe this honour?"

Henry chuckled low in his throat. "I am given to understand that you did not in fact know who Bridget really was," he said.

"You are correct," I said.

"Which means that you don't know who I really am," he said.

My mind raced somewhat illogically: Father? Uncle? Brother?

"What you must have thought," he continued with a chuckle, seemingly reading my mind. "Well, Mark. I am—was—Bridget's language and culture coach. Helped her with her accent, with English customs, as she tried to blend in, and good thing too; she would have tipped every service person in sight in a most embarrassing way if not for me."

The penny dropped with an almost audible thump. The praise, the coins at the theatre, the fact that I had seen them together as if joined at the hip.

"Of course, once she met you, she didn't need that part of my services anymore," Henry went on. "And that's why I'm here. Would have done sooner, except, well, she's been rather tight-lipped about what exactly had happened between the two of you."

"So why _are_ you here?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"She's doing brilliantly at her art. She's giving the performance of her life on the set. But I'm worried about her. She's working so hard that filming is actually ahead of schedule. I think it's because she's a bit blue, very lonely, and this gives her something to do. I know the divorce is something they were anticipating, but I can tell it's wearing her down, having to worry about all of that too and take care of it from a distance." He met my gaze. "She could really use a friend."

"Henry," I said. "She told me in no uncertain terms to keep my distance."

"I don't care what she told you," Henry said.

If I did try to call her, she'd probably refuse to take it as she had before. She certainly wouldn't agree to see me at the hotel. How I was supposed to be a friend was a good question, not to mention the question of what I would actually say. I didn't want her to think I was trying to put some kind of pressure on her about the state of us, if there even was an 'us'.

"I know we didn't see you together that much," Henry said, "but Emma and I both agree we haven't seen her quite so happy as we did on that day at the polo match."

I was glad to hear it, but—"She seemed really furious with me when I last saw her."

"Oh, make no mistake; she was," Henry said. "She thought that once you learned her true identity—listen to me, sound like I'm talking of bloody Superman—" He chuckled at this aside to himself. "Anyway, she thought you didn't want anything to do with what you thought was a shallow Hollywood type. She was upset that you thought that she was acting her way through every interaction with you. I told her to think about it from your perspective—if you really didn't know, how else would you have been expected to react?"

"I admit that I did think that. What about now?"

"Now?"

"Now that I've gone to see her, does she still think I feel that way?"

He jabbed his finger towards me. "This is why I think she needs a friend."

I regarded him with new eyes: he was trying to nudge us towards one another. He had done what he could do, and now it was up to me. "Thank you, Henry."

He closed his eyes and nodded, as if to acknowledge what I had been thinking was correct. He raised his glass as if in a toast, but said nothing. I did the same. I thought the toast was unspoken: _may this crazy plan succeed… whatever it happens to be_.

The next round was on me. As it turned out, Henry and his wife, who normally resided out in the country, were staying in a hotel just down the street. "In fact, this'll have to be my last," he said. "Emma's expecting me back. We're on set tomorrow." He tipped back his tumbler to drain it of the last of the amber liquid. "And it's a pity that I am leaving these notes behind," he went on, patting a notebook and a pile of loose papers sitting on the bar, "because I'll need them desperately tomorrow while we're there." I didn't quite understand what he meant until I did, confirmed when he added: "Ealing Studios." He righted the collar of his jacket then left. I gathered up his notes. On the top, very obviously meant for me to see, was an American telephone number, country code and all, plainly labelled in block letters "BRIDGET (MOBILE)".

I couldn't help but chuckle. No subtlety here. I finished my own drink then went to hunt for a taxi. I programmed her number into my mobile during the drive.

Not surprisingly, I had a little trouble sleeping that night. I was cautiously optimistic about visiting the studio, about seeing her. I didn't like failing, and I was terribly afraid of failing in this case.

…

The drive to West London seemed to take an eternity, that after a late start to begin with, but I'd been careful to actually bring Henry's notes with me. Arriving at nearly noon then claiming to be there to return something I hadn't had on me would have been embarrassing. I gave my name at the car park security, prepared to give them the entire story about returning Henry Shaw's essential notes to him, but they looked at a clipboard and waved me right through.

Before moving forward, though, I asked, "And where can I find Mr Shaw?"

"Sound Stage Three," said the security officer. "Just follow the signs."

I found a place to park the car, then looked around myself. There were several buildings and I didn't see any signs at all. I had no idea where to go.

"Mark?"

I whipped around. It was Emma. I had never been so glad to see a familiar face.

"Looking a bit lost," she said with a smile.

"Feeling a bit lost," I confessed. "Your timing is impeccable."

"Not entirely coincidental," she said. "Security messaged Henry that you were here. He asked me to come and fetch you."

"Well, whatever the provenance, I'm glad to see you."

She smiled then held out her hand to indicate the direction in which we should walk.

Inside the building, the sound stage was not quite what I expected. Bustling, busy, messy, noisy, and surreal in the sense that the set to my left (a high-class sitting room, currently not in use) seemed like it had been dropped into this chaos from another reality. We wound our way through the cacophony, which in contradiction moved like a finely oiled machine until an alarm sounded. When it did, all sound cut as if by a switch, all motion froze or went stealth.

"They're filming," whispered Emma close to my ear.

We slowly approached the sound stage on which all activity was focused. I was instantly entranced by what I saw. It was a library, a drawing room, an office; exactly which I couldn't tell. The setting appeared to be evening. There was Bridget, lit as if by moonlight, standing as if waiting for someone to join her. She looked really upset, really nervous, then spotted a paper on the desk there. With a tremulous hand she picked it up, then began to read it. I watched as tears erupted from her eyes, as she began voicing ever-louder "No!" as she finished reading it—then whipping around as if startled, covering her hand with her mouth, then eventually relaxing as she realised she was still alone. She continued to read, looking completely grief-stricken, as if what she was reading was shaking her foundation to the core. At the end her hand lowered the paper back into place as she looked blankly forward, tears streaming down her face.

After a few moments, we were all startled by a loud, brisk, "Cut!"

What shocked me the most was how the crew and cast around me erupted into applause. I got the feeling that sort of thing didn't happen frequently, judging from the way she looked shyly around her, smiling, mouthing the word 'thank you' to the praise that had unexpectedly been heaped upon her as she wiped the tears from her eyes.

Then those eyes fixed on me. There was a moment when the smile faltered—I hope because she was not expecting me to be there, not simply due to my very presence—and then the director called for a twenty minute break.

After being fussed over by what I could only guess were hair, makeup or wardrobe crew, she came wandering over to where I stood with Emma. Henry was not far behind her.

"Mark," he boomed. "I see you've brought my notes. Thank you."

I handed them to him, then looked to Bridget. I knew it was from the wrenchingly emotional scene she had just performed, but she looked a wreck, and I just wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. "Hello, Bridget."

"Hi, Mark," she said, still in her character's—i.e. English-accented—voice. "I was just a little surprised to see you here."

Henry spoke up. "Bridget, I think I heard Janelle say they've just brought some fresh coffee for you in your dressing room. I'll come for you when break's over."

I didn't know who Janelle was, nor did I care, but I wanted to kiss her… and Henry for that matter.

"Mark? Would you like some coffee?" Bridget asked me.

"I would love some."

I followed her to her dressing room; she closed the door behind me then looked up at me as she passed by. "Black," she said, not a question, but a statement.

"Yes, thank you." I watched her cross the room to where a carafe sat. She poured two mugs, doctoring one with the sweetener and the cream like I knew she liked it, while I went crazy trying to think of the perfect thing to say to heal everything between us.

As she gave me my coffee, I scrapped trying for perfect, and said simply and honestly, "I can never express how sorry I am. Sorry for the foolish assumptions I made, for not trusting you, for thinking you could string me along in good conscience. I should have believed you when you said you thought I'd known, should have never looked at that misunderstanding in such a negative light, and I hope you can forgive me." I took in a deep breath. "I've come to realise that rather than acting a character, being someone you were not, you showed me a more real 'you' than probably almost anyone else has seen in some time. I liked that 'you' a lot. I still do."

She looked to her coffee cup, blinking rapidly. "I like you too," she said quietly, this time in her own voice, her own accent, before going back to her character's voice. "But it is still complicated." She looked up again. "I'm technically still married, and I live half a world away from you. I'm only here to shoot the film, then it's back to LA."

"I can be patient if I need to," I said, "and having flown to places like Dubai and Thailand in the course of my work, I think a flight to Los Angeles now and again will not be such a hardship, particularly if it is to see you." Plus I was sure there was plenty of film and stage work in London, but I didn't want to push my luck.

Her eyes did not leave mine, and this time the tears I saw gathering were not a fiction, nor were they borne of sadness. "Now what?" she asked.

"Now I think we set our coffee cups down," I said, "and hug each other, to start."

She chuckled, tears spilling onto her cheeks. "Okay."

We did just that. It felt so good to have her in my arms again. I brought my hand up to cradle the nape of her neck, smooth down her hair, kiss her on the crown of her head. She tightened her embrace, pressing her hands hard into my upper back. "How hard it was before," I said quietly, "to watch you fall apart like that, and not be able to console you."

"That was acting," she murmured.

"You're just that good."

I heard her chuckle. She then drew back, looked up into my eyes again, and reached up to tenderly cup my face in her hand. I swelled with happiness inside. Never in a million years would I have thought I would have fallen in love with a movie star. But I had.

"In love?" she asked.

I hadn't meant to say that aloud. So much for not pushing my luck. "Maybe," I teased, then dove down to kiss her. It had been a month since I had last done so, and I felt like a man at an oasis after too long in a dry, desolate desert. It was a homecoming. We broke apart after several moments when sound—voices, crashes of moving equipment, et cetera—outside the door brought us back to our surroundings. "Let's have our coffee," I said, "and we can talk about having dinner, or something."

We took our mugs and sat in two chairs with a table between us, sipping at the coffee. It all seemed very calm, very normal, when in actual fact I wanted to bounce off the walls with my exhilaration: she had forgiven me, she had apparently taken me back, if we had ever even truly been together in the first place, despite the hurdles we stood to face.

"Too bad I can't invite you over to the flat," she said.

"Too bad, indeed. I liked that flat. And your cooking."

She laughed. "We had takeout."

I tsked her. "'Takeaway', Bridget. Not 'takeout' if you want to be a proper Englishwoman."

"Sorry," she said with a grin.

"I could cook for you, though," I said. "They don't seem to think I'm very interesting anymore." I meant the media, which she seemed to understand.

She smiled. "I like the sound of that. The hotel's very swanky, the food exceedingly good, but even a gilded cage is a cage."

"You can call me when you're free. Or just come over."

"Okay."

I nodded in acknowledgement, but inside felt like bouncing again. We had a date.

Within a few minutes there was a rapping on the door. "Come in," she called out.

Henry almost looked surprised that we were not writhing around on the sofa. "I hate to sound so cliché," he said, "but you're wanted on the set."

"Be right there."

Henry had the decency to leave as we stood, closing the door behind him. I drank the last of my coffee and set the empty cup down on the table. I had to go; I had a supper to plan and cook.

"You remember where I live?"

She nodded.

"I'll see you later, then."

She nodded again.

I bent and kissed her goodbye. I meant it to be chaste, but I got a little carried away. She giggled and pulled back. "I'm glad."

"For what?"

"That most of the sad, dramatic, tearful scenes are already in the can," she said.

I smiled, then brushed the backs of my fingers along her cheek before parting from her.

I caught Henry's eye on my way out. He gave me a querulous look. I lifted the corner of my mouth up in a sort-of smile, then nodded. Henry then smiled broadly.

I heard the tell-tale alarm sound indicating that shooting was to begin again. I intended on continuing out of the sound stage, off of the lot, but curiosity got the better of me; that and I didn't think leaving once 'quiet on the set' had been sounded was prudent. So I hung at the periphery, close enough to see the action, but not so close that I would distract her.

In the next scene, shot in the same clothes, the same set, it was apparently a continuation of what had just transpired, or at least close to it. The character had evidently pulled herself together, was now speaking to another character, a man, an actor whom I recognised immediately as being iconic and ever-present in British cinema (but whose name escaped me). I couldn't really hear what they were saying, as they were not projecting their voices as if in a theatre, just speaking loud enough for the microphones to pick up, but it became clear that he suspected she had seen whatever was on the paper, and she was using her powers of persuasion and cunning to get out of the room and to safety.

I was instantly impressed by how few takes it took to get through the scene; she was a consummate professional, obvious in her willingness to take feedback from the director and by how the English actor, one who was older and far more experienced than she, treated her with an unmistakable level of respect. Treated her as an equal.

There were several other scenes that were set up and shot in the same set. Before I realised it they were wrapping for the day; they had either planned on shooting a short day, or had finished sooner than expected, because it was barely four. I was slightly embarrassed. I was supposed to have gone home and started something for supper.

I went and knocked on her dressing room door. "Who is it?" she called.

"Mark," I said quietly.

After a moment, she pulled the door open. She was dressed in a robe and looked very confused. "I thought you were going home."

"Yes, well… I got sucked into the performance."

"Oh." She tinted pink. "If you give me five minutes I can just ride home with you."

I didn't know why I hadn't thought of it, even if it was a bit early. Dinner, late lunch; either way, I was happy to have her over. "Yes, of course," I said.

She closed the door with a little smile, and I stood just outside, waiting for her like a Royal Guard at attention, hands folded in front of me, trying to keep the joy I felt from transforming my features into an idiotic grin. She emerged looking comfy in jeans and a tee, a hooded sweatshirt, and trainers. Her hair was drawn back into a ponytail.

"What are you hungry for?"

The moment I said it, I regretted it, because it sounded slightly like a double-entendre, and that was not my intention at all. I waited for a reply. All I got was a smirk, then a laugh.

"Sorry," I said.

"Oh, don't apologise," she said. "Mm, could really go for a meatball sub, but I don't think that's possible here."

I had no idea what she meant. "We could order takeaway from an Italian restaurant," I offered.

"How about something nice and safe," she said, "like yellow curried chicken?"

I hardly thought curry was safe, but I had a feeling she had something specific in mind, so I drove to the little restaurant near to where she'd been living just off of Borough Market, placed the order, then shot back to my house. I didn't want to wait in the car for the thirty minutes they quoted, and I didn't want her to have to go in. She could be recognised anywhere now.

I opened the door to my house, invited her in. "Please make yourself comfortable. You remember where I kept the wineglasses and wine."

"Downstairs," she said with a grin. "Which is a little weird."

"I'll be back very soon."

"Okay."

We both stood there in the foyer, stiff and a touch awkward, until I bent to kiss her cheek lightly. She turned her head, though, so that I'd meet her lips.

"I'll pour one for you too," she said. "Red."

I nodded. I couldn't wait to get back home.

I made myself drive as calmly and as safely as possible. When I arrived back to the takeaway place, the food was waiting for me, delivered with a cheery smile. "Extra naan," said the man behind the counter with a wink. "I know your friend likes it." I had a moment of panic until he added, "She always asked for it before." He must have spotted her in the car.

I paid for our meals, and upon tucking my wallet away, I saw his brow furrow. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"

I shook my head, offering a self-deprecating smile. "I very much doubt that," I said before beating a hasty retreat.

When I arrived back to the house, I shed my shoes and suit jacket, then went directly down to the kitchen. It was early June, so even though it approached six in the evening, sunset was still hours away. With the windows still open to the vista of my modest back garden, I found Bridget on the sofa as if she'd sat to admire the scenery, but it appeared to me that she had just collapsed onto the thing and sacked right out, her cheek resting on her folded elbow on the arm of the sofa. It was a very sweet scene to happen upon. I suspected that conjuring the sort of emotion on which I'd seen her draw was exhausting, even if was just pretending.

The two glasses of wine were on the table before her, a substantial sip missing from hers. I grinned to myself, then took and unpacked dinner from the plastic sack, dumped the contents of the paper cartons into bowls, then brought it all and a pair of proper forks to the sofa. I sat beside her, touched her on the shoulder. "Hey," I said softly. "Wine go to your head already?"

She blinked slowly, then focused her eyes on me. It pleased me to see her smile when she did. "Sorry," she said, sitting upright, rubbing the corner of an eye with her knuckle. "I've been going full tilt for weeks. I can't remember the last time I sat in a quiet room all by myself."

"Your hotel room at night?"

She grinned. "Even then there are phone calls," she said. "I basically go there to shower then fall into bed. A car comes to get me far too early in the morning. I haven't had a real day off in forever, but you know, the results have been awesome."

It was a little odd, hearing her American verbiage with her English accent. I supposed since she was still in the middle of filming, she was still wearing it, as it were. "If what I saw today was any indication," I said, "then yes. Awesome."

"Thanks." She sat up. "Oo. Extra naan. Yum."

"The man running the shop recognised you in the car as the girl who always asked for extra," I said.

"You could have totally taken credit for being psychic, Mark," she said in a mock-scold. "Which one is mine?"

"Take your pick," I said. "They're exactly the same."

We ate mostly in silence. I'm sure the food was good, but the fact that I had not eaten since before going to the studio had really caught up to me and tricked my palate into thinking it was the best meal ever prepared in the history of the world. As we ate, as I brought the fork to my mouth, I happened to glance up as she was taking a monster bite out of a piece of naan, and simultaneously we both cracked a smile, then started to chuckle a little.

"Didn't realise quite how hungry I was," she said after chewing and swallowing.

I nodded, then said after I'd done the same, "I didn't honestly have much of an appetite before I talked to you." It was so easy to say what was on my mind when I was with her that it just came tumbling out.

She looked a little bashful. "I know what you mean. When I haven't been angst-ridden and stressed in the role, I've been really, well, angst-ridden and stressed about… our situation." I then watched her glance back down to the remains of her food and poke at it with the tines of her fork before she said, "I knew it was the right thing to do, but it was still really hard to accept."

Unfortunately I had lost my way in the conversation. I'd thought she'd meant the two of us. "Accept what?"

"That everything was really over with Xavier," she said. I saw a faint attempt at a smile. "When you try to make something work for so long, accepting that you just couldn't do it… it's really hard." She set her fork down, brushed away a tear before it had a chance to fall. "I'm sorry. I'm supposed to be here having a nice dinner with you and I'm talking about my failed marriage."

I set my own fork down in the empty bowl and set them on the table, then reached to place my right hand on her left. "Bridget, if you need to talk, I'm here," I said.

She met my eyes. "I know, and I'm thankful," she said. "The thing that was hardest on me was, ironically enough, how _easy_ it finally was to realise I wasn't in love with him anymore."

There was something about this statement that unsettled me, and I couldn't quite put my finger on why. I thought at the core of it might have been the whiff of a possibility that I'd had something to do with this precipitous acceptance, despite what she'd said on the television show. I had to know.

"I didn't influence you, I hope," I said quietly.

"What?"

"In making that final decision to split," I explained. "Taking that last step to end things. It wasn't my doing, was it?"

"No," she said. "At least not directly." She turned her hand over to hold mine. "Being overcome with such real emotion and passion…. I love him and always will, but I questioned whether I'd been _in_ love with Xavier. Certainly that spark was gone between us. To go the rest of my life without it again… I couldn't bear the thought. I knew it was the end."

I felt better knowing I had not been the wedge, or at least the mallet driving the final blow; my ego, however, felt worse. It wasn't that she'd picked me. It was that she hadn't picked him.

She squeezed my hand. I realised I should say something. "As you said… you want different things now."

"Yeah." Gently she pulled her hand from mine, turned her attention back to the rest of her dinner and by all appearances seemed ready to dig in to finish eating. But then she leaned forward, put her own bowl down, then looked at me once more with an expression that took my breath away and gave my ego a boost. "It _is_ easy to talk to you," she said. "It's easy to be with you. It's easy to be myself."

"Was it not easy with Xavier?"

"Don't compare yourself to him," she said in a surprisingly defensive tone. "He's a wonderful person, a decent man, a good friend, someone I think you'd like."

"Bridget, I'm not trying to make him out to be the devil incarnate," I said. "I'm just curious."

She pursed her lips a little. "Sorry," she said quietly. She reached for my hand again, cradling it in both of hers. "You're right; it wasn't always easy. The things about us that were so alike, that drew us together, turned out to be the things that we clashed about the most. We grew into different people than we were when we were younger. Unfortunately we just didn't notice it until much too late." She chuckled softly. "And here I am going on again about my failed marriage and about Xavier—" She squeezed the hand she held. "—when right now there's no one else I'd rather be with than you."

She had made mention of the emotion, the passion of that first spontaneous kiss, both of which had also infused our subsequent kisses; sitting there, my hand cradled in hers, only served to remind me how much I wanted to feel that again. How much I wanted _her_.

I don't quite remember if I leaned forward to kiss her or if she leaned into me, but the next thing I knew my lips were on hers, my arms were enveloping her, and I felt every nerve ending light in response to her kiss, her touch, her warmth. I brought my hand up to her hair, tugged out the elastic and combed my fingers through its silky length. I cupped the back of her head with my hand as I kissed her lips, cheek, chin, and made inroads towards the hollow of her throat.

"Mark," she said close to my ear, panting for breath. I immediately snapped back to reality, to our situation, to the fact she was still married, if only technically. I sat up straight.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I got carried away. Forgive me."

She smiled. "No, not that. I know this is probably not something you think about, but… how secure is your backyard, the yards around yours?"

I was utterly perplexed. "What?"

"Photographers, Mark. They can get in very close if they have a good lens and a straight shot, and these windows are lovely… and unobstructed."

I liked to think of my neighbourhood as fairly secure, but I couldn't guarantee with absolute certainty that someone wasn't peering down at us through the skylight. Involuntarily I looked up. She did too, then started to laugh.

"I know it's not normal to be this paranoid," she said, "but when pictures turn up in gossip rags of me running to get a coffee when I thought I was completely alone…"

I thought about that one morning when I'd had to deal with a crowd in front of Inns at Court. To live like that most of the time… it was not a pleasant thought. More concerning to me that moment, though, was the moral quandary I now faced. Obviously I would have liked to continue kissing her; how best to suggest relocating to a room with more privacy without seeming like I was trying to hustle her off to bed? I was not actually anxious to rush things in that regard, but physical closeness—hugging, touching, kissing—was something I wanted very much.

"It's early yet. Can we maybe go to another room and watch a DVD or something?"

I almost laughed in my relief. "Yes," I said. "Let's." I stood, took our bowls to the sink while she picked up the wine glasses. "Would you like more wine?"

"Yeah," she said. "Actually, can we bring the whole bottle up? I'm actually getting a day off tomorrow."

I smiled; I didn't mind switching to white. "Absolutely."

I led her upstairs, realising I hadn't really shown her around at all, so I pointed out the door to the loo, my home office and library before bringing her to the sitting room where the home theatre was, nothing too fancy: widescreen telly, sound system and speakers, disc player.

"This is nice," she said, striding immediately over to set the glasses down, then over to the windows and drawing the curtains closed. I must have given her a querulous look, because she said, "Well, you know, it'll be too hard to see the TV screen with the sunlight."

I went over to the television to find the various remotes to power the equipment up. I enjoyed having this available to watch films and television when the mood struck me, but I didn't have much opportunity to do so, let alone with another person. I thought fondly of the night we had watched a film together in her flat. "Discs are over there," I said, waving vaguely in the direction of the bookcase in which I had stored them. "Take your pick."

After a moment of quiet rustling, I heard her ask, "Mark? Did you really go out and get these?"

I turned around and saw her holding a small stack of DVD cases in her hand. I recognised them. They were her films.

"Yes," I said. "I think I found them all, except for the miniseries which is out of print."

"And did you watch them all?"

I nodded. I had watched everything in that period of time during which I was staying away and letting her work.

"And you hadn't seen them before?"

"Well, a couple," I explained, "but I didn't know you when I did."

She seemed incredulous. "Why did you do that?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Because I wanted to see your work," I said. "It helped me understand you better."

"I don't need to study law to understand you better."

"I hardly think that's the same." After a moment, I added, "Want to watch one?"

"Oh, no. I can't watch myself in the movies. I can't separate the filming experience from the story."

"You don't even watch to see how you might do it differently?"

"I already know how I might have done certain things differently," she said sheepishly. "Keep a catalogue in my head."

He chuckled. "Well, go ahead and pick out something else, then."

"All right."

I kept thinking of the one film that had been unavailable to me; I guess it took over my thoughts, my features, because she asked me what was wrong as she handed me the film she ended up choosing.

"Oh, nothing," I said, feeling my face flush; to hide my embarrassment I put in the disc and let it start playing.

"What is it?" she insisted.

I turned back to her. "Just a slight obsession."

Her brows lifted.

"It's that… I hate having an incomplete set," I explained. "But…"

"Mark, what are you talking about?"

"_Portrait of a Lady_."

She blinked a few times, then started to laugh in a way that was truly disproportionate, almost hysterical. "Seriously?"

"No more wine for you," I said playfully.

Her cheeks were pink from her amusement, and she wiped tears from her eyes. "Good grief, I'll dig one up for you."

It hadn't even occurred to me to ask. "But it's out of print."

"I'll find a copy. Don't worry." She patted the seat beside her, smiling in a very contented way. "Come on. Start the movie, one in which I do not appear."

I had to admit it was not a sentence I ever expected to have spoken to me. I sat beside her, pressed the start button, and while the film began to play, I poured each of us some more wine.

"If there's anything else you want from me, you only need to ask," she said, then took a sip of her wine. I don't know if she intended it to have double meaning, but my ears certainly heard it as such.

Within a few minutes we had emptied our glasses, set them down, and curled up to one another while the movie went on. I shouldn't need to spell out that it was inevitable, with her fingers raking across my shirt, her hair brushing against my chin, that we began to kiss; simple, chaste yet titillating little pecks that turned into long, languorous, sensuous kisses. I paced myself, keeping things slow, relishing the feel of her in my arms. The way she traced her tongue along my lips, the faded scent of her perfume, the sounds she made when I drew my fingertips across the cotton of her tee shirt to feel the hard points beneath… I could not deny these things were driving me wild with desire. I backed down though, tenderly stroking her hair with my hand as I brushed my lips against her cheek, struggling to regain a semblance of calm breath. I could hear her ragged breath, feel it against my neck.

"Mark," she whispered into my ear, her nails raking through my hair, making me shiver. I raised my head back to meet her eyes, which was an immediate mistake. She looked so gorgeous with the flush of passion colouring her skin, her blue eyes sparkling and intense, her blonde hair mussed, that I could not control what next fell from my lips.

"I want you."

She simply looked into my eyes, brought her fingers up to trace down my cheek, making me dizzy with the sensation before her lips flitted against mine again, triggering another passionate kiss. I thought it meant she felt the same, that she wanted me too; at least I hoped it did. But then I remembered I was supposed to be restraining myself and taking it slow.

I pulled back again. "Bridget," I said. "We shouldn't—"

"We should," she interrupted quietly. "I know exactly what I'm doing, and what I want. And that's you."

One thing I knew for sure: I was not going to make love to her for the first time on the sofa in front of the television. Not only was it déclassé for a woman of her calibre, but the concept conjured up far too many unpleasant memories considering what I had interrupted in my own bedroom many moons ago. I brushed her hair back with my fingertips, which were traitorously trembling.

"You're sure about this?"

"Dammit, Mark," she said with a bit of a smile. "Will you stop being such a bloody gentleman and drag me off to bed, already?"

I did not exactly drag her, but led her by the hand and up the stairs to my bedroom. When I opened the door for her she made a little sound that told me she was impressed. I had not honestly had much occasion to show off the cherry wood four-poster to many people, let alone a gorgeous woman eager for me to bed her. I closed the door, gave a brief thought as to the already-closed curtains, then turned to her. "The loo's just there if you want a moment."

She strode up to me, reached for the button on my trousers, then kissed me as she sent them and my boxers to the floor. Without missing a beat she then started in on my shirt buttons. I didn't guess she needed a moment. I walked her towards the bed. I couldn't wait to undress her.

As I slipped out of my dress shirt, I saw her reach down and tug her own tee shirt up and over her head. "Hold on," I said, a little more gruffly than I intended, before I got a good look at her as she stood there in nothing more than a lacy bra and jeans. She had a fantastic body. I was pleased to see she was not too skinny; rather, she was gifted with generous curves that I hoped were not just there for the role she was playing. I hope they would stick around.

"What?" she asked, bewildered.

"I would prefer to do that myself."

"Oh," she said with a timid smile.

Her skin was that perfect, creamy complexion that tended to be associated with the proverbial English rose, and as I ran my fingertips along her shoulder, collar bones (eliciting a sigh), I could only smile at the thought that the casting had been dead on. I moved then to the lacy bra, tracing along the edges until they came to the front clasp, for which I was grateful; no fumbling behind her back, and a much nicer presentation overall after unclasping.

I saved that for after getting rid of the jeans.

A flip of the button, a lowering of a zip, and a shimmy later, and she was there before me in her pants; also lacy and lovely but not an exact match to the bra. I could not remotely care. She was utterly breathtaking. I went up to her, reached for that front clasp, and undid it.

As I said, utterly breathtaking.

I reached down, took her in my arms and kissed her, running my hands over her bare back, down over her bottom and over the lace of her pants. I pulled her against me, and the rush of lust washed over me again. I wanted her urgently, desperately.

Without going into indiscreet detail unworthy of a gentleman, we dropped back onto the mattress and made love, though somehow those words didn't exactly capture the tenderness, the enthusiasm, the sheer transcendental bliss of it all. Lazily we dozed between lovemaking, the embers flaring back to full flame when one of us would caress the other, kiss the other, shift position in just the right way. It didn't even need to be intentional.

Eventually we both drifted to sleep, exhausted from our exertion, but satiated all the same. She fell asleep first, and I had the pleasure of gazing upon her until I did, too. I did not spare a thought for the future, for when she was through with filming and left England for her home in Los Angeles. I thought only about the moment, the amazing woman in my arms, and what a difference a day could make.


	6. Chapter 6: Afterglow

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 4,591  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Apologies to those who have left reviews and I haven't responded. It's been a really awful week; nothing tragic, just busy, and I'm trying not to put pressure on myself over every little thing.

* * *

Chapter 6: Afterglow

When I woke the bed beside me was empty. Furrowing my brows, I lifted my head, saw that the bathroom door was closed; I could hear the water running in there. I smiled, resting my head on the pillow again. I closed my eyes, still feeling residually drowsy, not really intending on falling back asleep but I must have, because the next thing I knew the bed beside me was sinking again, stirring me awake.

I turned my eyes to her. She'd helped herself to the shower, and she was glowing pink and radiating warmth. She was sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel fixed around her, a tender look in her eyes, a smile on her face. Her hair was finger-combed, wet and tousled around her face, which was freshly washed and her skin glowing, beautiful and near-flawless even without the aid of makeup.

"Morning," I said, my voice sleep-scratchy.

"Morning," she said. She took a deep breath, then closed her eyes and exhaled slowly before she looked at me again. "I _really_ needed last night."

My heart nearly stopped. Did she mean sex as simple stress release? She chuckled; I wondered what my features did to prompt it.

"Oh, Mark," she said, leaning forward over me and giving me a little kiss. "I've been looking forward to spending the night with you for some time, and I was not disappointed. Plus, you know, solid, uninterrupted sleep and a long, hot shower."

"Ah," I said, feeling embarrassed. "Might I tempt you with some coffee or breakfast?"

"Mm," she said, swinging her legs up onto the bed and leaning over onto the pillow. "You might." I could see the strain where the towel was tucked in just over her breast, pulling, wanting to be free. I did not speak up, but waited with some amusement for the inevitable release.

She was adorable when it happened, scrambling to pull it closed again, her face flushing pink. I stayed her hand, my eyes lingering on the swell of her breast.

"I see what you're up to," I said in all seriousness, lifting my hand to touch her warm skin. "Counter-tempting me, instead."

"I really wasn't trying," she said.

"It's okay if you were," I said softly.

She allowed the towel to fall away, pushed down the sheets and climbed in beside me, but rather than pounce upon each other like wild rabbits, we snuggled close for a very long time, our arms wrapped around one another, our legs entwined. She was everything warm and soft and I never wanted the moment to end, as ridiculous as that very notion always sounded when other people said it.

"I'm really glad we're not filming today," she murmured.

"You'd be really late," I said. Her quiet laughter rocked against me. "You know," I went on, "I wasn't disappointed either."

"Mmm," she responded, nuzzling into my neck. I felt her place a kiss on my throat. I'd known it would be only just a matter of time before we were making love again, and I wasn't wrong.

We were still finding our way, discovering what we each liked, and yes, even fumbling a little, but enjoying the process very much; sex is only perfect in films and on television, but with her it was damned close.

"I think we undid any good the shower might have done," she said as I kissed her forehead, tasting the salt on her skin.

"Doesn't matter," I said. "Not complaining."

She tilted her head back, sighing as I moved to her throat. "Mark, are we going to spend all day in bed?"

"No," I said, not stopping the post-coital attention I was lavishing upon her; I had a lot of time to make up for. "I'll still need a shower. I know—you can join me."

She chuckled. "A change of venue hardly counts."

"And the coffee won't make itself," I reminded.

"Hmm," she said. "That's too bad."

With that she pushed me back against the mattress and kissed me with renewed vigour, then surprised me by straddling my hips and proceeding to take the reins for this round. It very much did seem like we might stay all day in bed, but what I'd said about the coffee was true, I was really starting to need the loo, and—

We were lazing afterwards when my stomach growled in a most embarrassing manner. Affectionately she ran her hand over my abdomen; I heard the faintest giggle. "I suppose we ought to eat."

"Mm," I said. I certainly needed to refuel after all of that activity. "Then shower."

Reluctantly we pried ourselves apart from one another. I gave her my robe, and I opted for a pair of pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt. I caught her smiling at me as I pulled the lower hem down.

"What?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Nothing," she said. "Just feeling very happy, is all."

I felt quite confident with the brightness outside that no photographer could get a good angle into the house on the lower floor. I made some coffee and fried up some eggs while she sat at the breakfast nook leafing through the newspaper; I insisted on cooking for her, since I'd not had a chance the night before. When the food was ready, we devoured it in near silence, but it was very comfortable. Very natural. As I sipped my coffee, I gave a brief thought to the sitting room upstairs and hoped the television and disc player had had the decency to turn themselves off after a while. I chuckled with the warm thought of our rapid departure from the room.

"What?"

"Nothing important," I said, reaching over to cover her hand with mine. "I'm glad you have the day off from filming, too."

She smiled a little sheepishly.

The thing of it was, while I very much enjoyed our new level of intimacy, it really wasn't what I wanted to spend all day doing. We'd had a great deal of freedom of movement when she was Bridget Jones. That was no longer the case, particularly as I was now also in the media's crosshairs. We had to be circumspect.

"Looks like it's going to be a beautiful, sunny day," she said wistfully, her attention turned to the spread of windows overlooking my back garden. I recalled what she said about feeling she was kept in a gilded cage. I resolved at that moment to take her somewhere where we could enjoy the sunshine. Where, I hadn't quite decided, and how we'd accomplish this, I didn't know yet. But we would, even if I had to dress her up in my court wig.

It wasn't yet noon. We had the whole afternoon in front of us.

"I have an idea," I said quietly. "Let's have that shower and go and visit your parents."

She looked at me with an expression of considerable confusion.

I added, "Ms Jones."

"Ah." The smile that crossed her face was beamingly bright.

"Or at least _my_ parents. They'll be glad to see you again." I paused, then decided to add, "My mother really liked you."

"Did she?"

"Mm-hmm," I said through the last sip of coffee.

"That's nice to know," she said. "And I think my mother would really like you."

As we showered—me rather thoroughly, she just a touch-up—I wondered about her family, the real one back in New York state in America, her parents, her brothers. As we dried off I asked her to tell me all about them, about growing up where she did, what it was like to go from there to a place like Los Angeles.

"New York City was my first stop, for college—excuse me, _uni_," she said, pulling a comb through her damp locks, "and it was pretty tough on me. It wasn't a small town, but it was something of culture shock to move to such a huge metropolis. Then another huge culture shock going to Los Angeles. It was very hard not to get caught up in trying to be like some physical embodiment of a Barbie doll, perfect but plastic."

I thought she was pretty damn perfect, but I knew what she meant. I rubbed the towel over my hair to work out the excess water, then went to my closet to find something to wear.

"My brothers were funny about my leaving for the first time to the big, scary city," she said. "They've always been really protective of their little sister. Have you seen my underwear?"

It was such a non-sequitur I couldn't help but laugh. "If I had to guess, probably caught up in the sheets or under the bed," I said. I walked over and pulled the bedclothes taut. Her lacy pants fell to the floor, and I could see the strap of her brassiere poking out from under the edge of the bed. I swept them up and offered them to her. "What are their names?"

"What?"

Belatedly I realised it sounded like I wanted to know what she called her smalls. "Your brothers."

"Oh. Tom and Jude. Jude teaches English at the high school. Tom's a flight instructor."

"And your parents?"

"Dad's a classics professor at the university. Mom's a nurse. Richard and Betty."

I could picture the lot of them in my head, variations on her blonde hair and blue eyes. I imagined they were all as kind and witty as she was, and that supper together in the evenings when they all were all together was filled with intelligent conversation. "I would love to meet them someday."

I said it without really thinking through how it could be interpreted; I didn't mean it in the sense that I wanted to ingratiate myself into their lives. She only smiled and said, "You will."

I lent her a tee shirt so that she'd have something different to wear. It was a bit large on her but she looked adorable. She lamented the lack of cosmetics. I could only reassure her that she looked fine. Actually, she looked refreshed and happy, which was something cosmetics couldn't duplicate.

She wanted to pull her hair back into a ponytail again, so we went on a hunt for her elastic, which turned up in the sitting room. I saw that the television was still powered on so I switched it off. "Let's go."

She had her sunglasses in her handbag, the pink ones with pink lenses; I guessed that was as good as her disguise was going to get. It was all she would end up needing. We got into my vehicle and shot north towards Grafton Underwood.

"Hm," she said. "I should check my messages." She pulled out her mobile from her purse. "Seven missed calls. Five of them the director—it is my _day off_!" she scolded the phone. "One from Henry, and one from Xavier. Do you mind my listening?"

"Of course not," I said.

As she listened I could hear her cursing at the director again under her breath until she went quiet. I caught her smiling, presumably at Henry's message; my guess proved correct when she looked at me and chuckled. "Henry says hello."

I smirked. "What did the director want?"

"To discuss the filming we're doing this week. He wants to make sure I know what he wants." She snorted. "I know exactly what he wants, the old pervert."

"What?" I said, immediately angry and defensive on her behalf.

"Oh, don't worry," she said dismissively. "He thinks now that I'm getting divorced he's got a chance in hell." She placed her hand over mine on the gear shift. "As if."

"And Xavier?" I asked casually, hoping he hadn't called to say he'd changed his mind.

"Oh, he's going to be in London again, wants to have dinner." I looked to her. "I want you to come too."

I could not help but feel that it was a bit strange for my new lover to want me to meet her husband; granted, he was soon to be an ex-husband, but it felt strange all the same. "I would be happy to," I said.

"You don't sound happy."

"No, really, I am," I said. "If you're still going to be on friendly terms, he and I should be, too."

She didn't respond right away. "It _is_ odd, if you think about it."

I chuckled. "It is." I indicated and followed the junction towards Grafton Underwood. "So when's dinner?"

"He seemed to indicate he'd be getting into town tonight. I'll call later and fix the details. Any night work best for you?"

"Not Monday or Tuesday," I said. "I have a big court appearance on Wednesday."

"How about Wednesday then?"

"I might not be good company, depending on how things turn out."

"All the more reason for you to see me."

She made an excellent point. "Okay," I agreed.

She made sure the ringer was off, then put her mobile away. "There's nothing anyone needs me for that badly." She then took my hand, and we spent the remainder of the drive in relative silence.

My mother was quite surprised to see me turn up out of the blue with Bridget in tow. When Bridget excused herself to use the ladies', my mother brought me to the sitting room then asked in a hushed tone, "What is going on? I thought she was married—well, getting divorced, but still married at the moment."

"She is," I said.

"But doesn't it bother you?"

Given what had happened to me with Daniel, I could see where my mother was coming from. "I brought it up, but she indicated it would make no difference one way or another as far as legalities go. Yes, it does bother me a little, but…" I drifted off. "I'm not sure how much longer she'll be in London. Maybe it's selfish, but I didn't want to wait to act on my feelings."

My mother smiled at me. "It's nice to see you acting on your feelings for once," she said, a slight tease to her voice. She patted my arm reassuringly.

"Happened upon this pretty lass in the foyer." It was my father, showing Bridget where we were.

"You remember Bridget, don't you, Malcolm?" said my mother.

"Mmm, yes, Jamie's friend at New Year's. Lovely to see you again."

"Lovely to see you, too," she said.

"Bridget had a break from working," I said, "so we came to visit… and spend a little time outside."

My mother understood immediately. "Yes, I don't expect you can take a leisurely stroll through London, with the state of things in the papers. Well, make yourselves at home. Mark, you know where everything is. You'll stay for dinner, I hope?"

I glanced to Bridget. She nodded. "Call isn't until nine tomorrow morning," she said.

"Great. Well, we'll leave you to it then."

"To what?" asked my father.

"They're having an afternoon in the back garden," she said in a quiet voice, herding him away.

"My father is a fine man," I said once they'd gone, "but picking up on subtlety isn't one of his strong suits."

She laughed.

I brought her to the kitchen and poured us each a glass of lemonade, which we drank before we headed outside. The weather was absolutely marvellous; not a cloud in the sky, a light breeze was blowing through the trees, and my parents' house was nestled on fine grounds on which to walk. Best of all, since the nearest neighbour was some miles down the road, it was very private.

We walked hand in hand, and when we came to a copse of trees we paused to sit against one in the shade and admire the serenity of our surroundings. I had my arm around her and she was leaning on me. When I glanced down I could see she had her eyes closed, a slight smile playing on her lips.

"Thank you for this," she said softly.

"It's my pleasure." I kissed the top of her head.

"Such a treat to be outside with the sun on my skin and the cool air, and best of all, no evidence of civilisation, no cars whizzing by, no horns, no airplanes, no sea of people." She sighed. "Reminds me a little of home."

"You can't mean Los Angeles."

She laughed. "Well, I do mean _home_ home, but LA isn't so far off, where I live."

I could not help but think of the last time we'd spent a wonderful, quiet, peaceful day in the country, when the bombshell of her real identity had gone off at point blank range shortly afterwards. I hoped there were no other surprises or secrets waiting. The reality that she would be leaving sooner rather than later to go back to Los Angeles was ever-looming, but that would not really be the end of things, just an inconvenient distance to travel. I did not want to let her out of my life now that she was in it. She made me very happy, and I told her so.

"I'm happy too," she said, then turned her face to mine and kissed me.

We strolled around some more. She took off her shoes and socks and walked barefoot through the grass, so I did the same. She also found an old swing hanging from a tree limb; it must have been mine but I did not recall it in the least. Giggling, she sat on it and asked me to push her. I grabbed the thick chain, lifted up and back, then let go. I watched her bound hair float on the air as she swung forward then back again. I pressed my hands hard against her back every time she swung my way, sending her into an ever higher arc. She laughed again, and I laughed too. It felt wonderfully freeing.

I stopped pushing. The pendulum-like motion slowed, and at one point as it went forward she jumped off. Still laughing, she turned around to look at me, then raised her face to the sun and smiled, inhaling deeply, before frowning. "Should probably go in soon. Mustn't get too much sun, or the director will have my head for screwing up continuity," she explained.

"You really shouldn't have jumped off," I said as I approached her. "You could have twisted or broken your ankle."

"Oh," she said. "Good point. Glad I didn't."

"So am I," I said. "Racing to Accident and Emergency is not my idea of a pleasant day out."

"Excellent point," she said, looking up at me as I stood towering over her.

There in the middle of the lawn, with the sun shining down upon us, our shoes in a pile next to us, I took her face in both of my hands and gave her a long, lingering kiss before pulling back. "Let's go inside," I said. "More lemonade awaits, and supper beyond that."

She nodded. "Okay."

We held hands as we walked up to the house again, carrying our shoes, and went straight for the kitchen and for something to drink. Being outside was not something I commonly did, either, and I felt a bit worn out and parched. It was some time until dinner would be ready, and after all of that fresh air (not to mention staying up a little too late the previous night), what I really wanted was a lie down; from her sleepy expression I could tell she wanted one, too.

"Oh, you're back inside." It was my mother. The first thing she looked at was my bare feet, which admittedly must have looked odd coming out from beneath my pleated (though rumpled) trousers. "You're looking a little peaked."

"Thank you very much, Mother," I said drolly. Bridget covered her mouth and snickered.

"I don't mean that," she said. "I mean… why don't you rest a while in the sitting room while I put together dinner? Just pasta and a salad, nothing too complex."

We took our drinks and went to the sitting room. My father was in there watching a match on the television. Upon our entering he glanced our way. "Ah, cricket fans?"

I laughed; my father knew I was not particularly fond of it, and I would have been surprised if Bridget knew what the game was about. "We're just going to relax while dinner's being prepared," I said.

"Telly being on won't bother you?"

As heavy as my lids felt, I doubted military ordnances going off around me would bother me. "We'll be fine."

We sat beside one another in a slightly prim and chaperoned way, but it was not long before she was leaning with her arms around me, I was leaning on the arm of the sofa and drifting to sleep.

The next thing I knew my mother was shaking my arm. "Dinner's ready."

"Oh." We sat up, both feeling a bit embarrassed. Either the match was over or my father had gone due to our napping, because the television was off. "Thank you."

"Back patio," she said. "We thought it might be nice to dine outside." I caught the smirk on my mother's face as she backed out of the room.

I called after her, "Be right out."

"Oh, how embarrassing," Bridget said. "Falling asleep draped all over you like that. What must she think?"

"She thinks we're comfortable together," I said, "and what makes me happy makes her happy."

She still seemed chagrined, but smiled. "If you say so."

Dinner was light and delicious. My father was unusually talkative, and he asked Bridget all about herself. I wasn't quite sure if he knew she was a movie star and was just being polite, or if he truly didn't know, though with the way he reacted at her saying she was American, I had to think it was the latter.

I skipped having wine with dinner. I really hated to eat and run but I needed to get back to London, to get her to her hotel so that I could prepare for work the next day. We'd had a great day out together, but reality called. "Well, take some tarts with you," said my mother.

"Okay."

As we prepared to leave, my mother gave her a big hug. "It was nice to see you again," she said. "Don't be a stranger."

"I won't if I can help it," she said.

"Safe driving, son," said my father. "Take care of this girl. She's a keeper."

My mortification was mollified only by the fact that she seemed to be flattered by his words. "You're very sweet, sir. Thank you."

"I'll do my best, Father."

As we drove away, I heard her grip tighten on the paper sack my mother had packed the tarts in. "I like your parents a lot."

"I'm happy to hear it," I said. "As mentioned, the feeling's mutual."

"I both do and don't wish filming was over. I mean, the day could go a bit longer if I didn't have to get up and go shoot in the morning, but if filming were over…"

She didn't have to finish her thought. "Yes, I know what you mean."

She slipped her fingers across my knuckles where my hand rested on the gearshift. "I've had a wonderful time today," she said. "I really like being with you."

"That feeling is definitely mutual," I said.

Just then she offered me one of the fruit tarts, which popped quite handily out of its tin, and we ate the tarts to her effusive praise for my mother's baking as we continued our way south. I considered how eating in the car and eating while driving were things I never would have tolerated at one time.

We fell silent again, though it was not uncomfortable. I saw her looking out the window at the passing landscape, as twilight approached, as the urban sprawl came nearer and nearer.

"You have everything with you, don't you?"

"Hm?"

"That you brought to my house."

"Well, except for my original tee shirt, yes."

"I should, um, bring you to your hotel then."

She didn't reply right away. "Yes," she said at last. "You're probably right."

I turned my hand over to cradle hers in mine. "Let me know about dinner with Xavier, where and exactly when."

"I will." After a pause, she added, "I should give you my cell number."

I smirked. "Henry already gave it to me."

She chuckled. "He tries to be all 'stiff-upper-lip' English and all, but he's really a big softie when it comes down to it."

"I think most of we Englishmen secretly are."

The next thing I knew she was leaning over and pecking me on the cheek, causing me to swerve a little, but sending both of us into gales of laughter. I was thankful we were alone on the road.

Reaching London proper caused us to both go silent, because we knew our day together was drawing to a close. Pulling up to the kerb in front of The Montagu was positively funereal. "Well," I said. "Guess this is calling it a night."

"Guess so." She glanced around us. The streets were fairly quiet. No one seemed to be paying us any mind. "I'll give you a call when things are all worked out for Wednesday."

"Okay," I said. I wanted to kiss her good night, but she was the one in the public eye. I didn't want to cause her discomfort.

However, she must have felt it safe to kiss me, because she leaned over and did, and not in a friendly, light way. It was the sort of kiss that made me wish I was not saying goodbye for the evening. "Talk to you soon," she said, touching my face then pushing herself away. I was so discombobulated I did not think about getting out of the car and walking her to the door until she'd already gone inside.

When I got home, my house phone was ringing. It was Bridget. I chuckled, explained why I was chuckling as I gave her my mobile number for future reference.

"So I spoke to Xavier. Wednesday night's fine. Seven p.m., the Ivy?"

I hesitated. I didn't want a place like the Ivy. It was a well known spot for famous and prominent people, and photographers liked to swarm around hoping to get a snap or two.

"Mark?" she asked. "Did you hear me?"

"That'll be an awfully public appearance together."

I hoped she knew better than to think I was ashamed of being seen with her. "If we're going to keep seeing each other, it'll have to happen sooner or later," she said. "And what could be better than doing so with Xavier? No subterfuge, no rumours of a secret affair. Everything out in the open, him publicly accepting you. Us."

I took in a great big breath. She was right… and I certainly wanted to keep seeing her. "Seven it is, then."

"Great," she said. I heard her sigh. "It feels so empty here."

I knew what she meant. I missed her too. "If I could come over, I would."

"I know." I heard her sniff in a breath. "Good luck in court," she said. "I'll see you Wednesday night."

I knew I would be able to get through my preparation and court appearance without issue; I had always been able to compartmentalise work and personal life. Still, my bed was going to seem very lonely that night.


	7. Chapter 7: Meet the X

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 5,997  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 7: Meet the X

Court went in my favour, which I took as an auspicious sign. I could not help but feel nervous as I scrutinised my appearance in the mirror. It would be mere minutes before I'd be hopping into a taxi for the Ivy. I did not want to drive; I knew I would need wine with supper, and plenty of it, for my formal debut into her society.

An unfortunate traffic snarl put me at the Ivy at nearly half past seven. I phoned Bridget's mobile to let her know, but got voice mail so I left a brief message. I entered the restaurant, explained with which party I was dining, and was promptly brought to a table for four. There was only one person sitting at the table, and he rose to greet me.

"Hello," he said, offering a smile, extending his hand for a friendly shake. "You must be Mark." He was very handsome indeed, more so in person than in photos, and remnants of his native language's accent came through as he spoke. I could see patrons at nearby tables—women, but some men too—craning to look at us.

"And you must be Xavier," I said with a polite smile, accepting the handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet you." It was evident that a third chair had recently been occupied as we seated ourselves again. "Where's Bridget?"

"In the ladies' toilet," he said with a wry tone. "I'm afraid nothing I could say could convince her you were not standing her up."

"What?" I said, surprised. "I phoned to say—well, there was some traffic."

"She left her mobile at the hotel," he explained. "I told her she was being—oh, here she is." We both stood again as gentlemen do as she weaved through the tables towards us, her face lit with a smile. "Was I right?" he said to her.

"You were right," she admitted. She reached and took his hand, squeezing gently before coming up to me and embracing me. "Hi," she said sheepishly. "I admit right off the bat that I was being ridiculous."

"Exactly what I was about to say," he said.

I chuckled. "If you had your mobile—"

"He said that, too," she said. We all sat again; she was seated between the two of us.

"I'm very sorry about the traffic."

"That was hardly your fault," she said. "Anyway." She took in a deep breath, looking from Xavier to me. "Wine?" she asked brightly. "Red?"

"Yes," I said. "Have you ordered yet?"

"Not yet."

I had been there frequently enough that I already knew what I wanted. The server came, took our orders, and promised to be back right away with my wine. I saw they had already started in on wine of their own. They both had white.

"I'm sorry I didn't get to introduce you to each other properly," Bridget said.

"It's all right," I said. "We seemed to do just fine on our own."

"It's not what I pictured, though," she said with a little pout.

"Don't fret about it," Xavier said with a laugh. "It all worked out. 'Don't borrow—'"

"'Borrow trouble'," she said, overlapping his words and chuckling too. "That always sounds so weird coming from you."

The server brought my wine. I thanked him, picked up the glass and took a long sip.

"So how did you meet?" Xavier asked, looking to Bridget. "When?"

Bridget smiled. "Oh, it's a very funny story. New Year's Day, when I was in England making arrangements for research. Jamie brought me to this party his parents were having—you remember Jamie from Ealing?" Xavier nodded. "I went there undercover, the accent and all."

"It's very fetching on you," he interjected. I felt an irrational surge of jealousy.

"Well, anyway, we decided to pretend I was Jamie's sister, and that we were being set up with one another. Mark and me, I mean. It failed miserably as far as that goes. He insulted me so incredibly badly, but it didn't offend me. I was pleased, actually, that I was able to pull the wool over everyone's eyes, because all I usually get is that I'm just a pretty face."

Even as I thought she must be exaggerating with the awards she had won, I felt terrible at the reminder of how horrible I'd been that day. I could feel the sinews in my jaw and neck tighten up.

"I decided to fill out the back story for 'Bridget Jones' in working at the publishing place," she went on. "I met up with Mark again in the middle of April, after I'd been at Pemberley for a couple of weeks." She reached and placed her hand on mine.

"So what happened to bring about that big row at the pub?"

"Oh, well," she said reluctantly. "Rather awful comedy of errors. I thought he'd worked out my real identity, but he hadn't, and when he'd found out… and of course, no one knew you and I had split up. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your going public with me."

He reached for her other hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss. "Of course, _ma chère_. I couldn't bear to think anyone thinking badly of you."

I felt that little green devil stirring in me again. Even before the appetiser arrived I could see how close they were, how at ease they were with one another. It almost felt like I wasn't even there, at least until Xavier turned his attention on me.

"So you insulted this beautiful girl on New Year's?" he asked me. "What unkind words could you possible have had for my Bridget?"

I was flustered by the use of the possessive; luckily she stepped in and answered.

"I believe it had to do with my smoking," she filled in, "and my drinking, and my horrible outfit, but in all honesty, the outfit had it coming."

"Really?" Xavier said, eyes wide.

"That's it in summary, yes," I offered. "Call it a testament to how convincing she was."

"I know that all too well," Xavier said. He picked up his wineglass, drained it; a server was promptly at his side to refill it. Xavier went on, "You smoking? I cannot picture such a thing."

She shrugged, but smiled. "Yeah, I managed to get myself hooked. I stopped again, cold turkey." She shot me a meaningful look. "Just last Saturday."

Xavier was really laughing now. "Oh, Bridget. You give up too much of yourself for your art, sometimes, and don't take enough… well, except maybe for my new friend here. I must say it suits you," Xavier went on. "I haven't seen you this happy in a while." Xavier glanced to me with a grin. I was warming to him again. "He has been taking good care of you, yes?"

She chuckled. "Very good." She squeezed my hand. I suddenly felt like this was some kind of interview… not with a soon-to-be ex-husband, but with family. More specifically, a brother. "He stood for ages in the rain waiting to talk to me, sent me flowers, has given me the space I've needed… he has been nothing but a gentleman."

"Very good indeed." He raised his chin, offered a smile. "I feel I am leaving her in very capable hands."

"I'm glad to hear it." If it was an interview, I thought this meant I'd passed. I could still feel a low-level envy though, and I couldn't quite place why. I finished my wine just as appetisers arrived, and we dug in. I hadn't noticed how hungry I was until the scent of the food hit my nostrils. My wineglass too was refilled, with my preferred red, which seemed to punctuate my persistent feeling as the odd man out.

As we ate, Xavier asked me about my profession. "She told me you were in court. Are you a justice?"

"No," I said. "A barrister. I work primarily in the field of human rights."

"Oh! How did it go today?" she asked earnestly.

"Very well," I said. "I guess I was persuasive enough with my arguments. That and the law was on my side."

"I had every confidence," she said proudly.

Our conversation during the appetisers, then the meal, made me feel less anxious, more comfortable. The wine may have also helped with this. However, it occurred to me over the course of the night what the source of my residual jealousy was: their relationship was borne out of a long friendship, one in which they could trust one another utterly and completely. This trust was nurtured and sustained out of necessity, being in the business they were. It was unlike any relationship I had with anyone, not even Bridget quite yet. Certainly our relationship did not have that same longevity.

I realised I was lost in my own thoughts when I was rudely pulled out of them by the tail end of a comment Xavier made.

"—filming's almost over, you must be torn about going back."

I jerked my head towards Bridget. She looked ashamed.

"Um," she said quietly, looking from him to me. "We hadn't had time to have that conversation yet."

"But you finish next week," Xavier said to her, not very helpfully.

I felt blindsided. "Next week," I repeated; it was not a question.

For his part, Xavier seemed honestly repentant to have stepped in it in such a way. "I am so sorry. I thought—"

"Don't be sorry," she said, raising her eyes to meet mine. "I should have said something a lot sooner. I was just… didn't want to cast a pall on everything."

"When were you planning on saying something?" I asked, my tone a touch hot.

"Later," she said. "I'm sorry."

It occurred to me that I couldn't be too angry. After all, we both knew it would come down to her leaving to go back to America. I supposed I was just feeling a bit stung that she'd told him first. I reached for her hand. "It's all right," I said, calming myself, offering her a smile. "I mean, it's not all right that you're going to be leaving, but, well, it's not unexpected. That's where your home is. We'll think of what to do next."

She pursed her lips, then forced herself to smile through impending tears. "Okay." She nodded, the smile turning more genuine. "Okay."

I was really pleased that everything had gone so well, my meeting Xavier, our first public outing, but she had been right. It did cast something of a pall on the small remainder of the evening. At the end of the night I insisted on paying for the meal, but Xavier beat me to it. "We will meet again, maybe when you are in LA," he said, giving me his number on his drink coaster, "and then it will be your turn."

I smiled sincerely. I really did like him, and was glad she had him for a friend. "Agreed."

As we proceeded to leave the restaurant to find taxis, I was temporarily blinded by the flashes of light that met us. The paparazzi must have been like sharks to blood in the water when word got out that we had all been there together. We all ended up in the same cab just to save ourselves from the vultures, squeezed cheek by jowl, as it were, in the back seat, Bridget between we two men. She took my hand.

"Novotel, please," said Xavier to the cab driver, followed by the intersection near which it sat, near to London Bridge. A distant bell rang in my head, recalling encountering Bridget outside of that very hotel weeks ago.

"Do you always stay there?"

"Yes," he said. "Why?"

"Just curious," I said, looking to Bridget. I was certain she knew I had pieced together what had really happened that day I'd found her bawling in the rain. It must have been the day they'd had their big divorce discussion. It was the only explanation that made sense.

Both Bridget and I needed to go in the opposite direction, to the west, but the scarcity of taxis necessitated our going for a little ride. I didn't mind. It would give us a little time to talk once Xavier was deposited kerbside.

Upon our arrival at Novotel, he leaned and pecked her on each cheek. "Take care of yourself," he said to her. Looking to me, he did not need to say out loud what I knew he was thinking: _Keep taking care of her_. He nodded, and I nodded in acknowledgement.

"So," I said, once we were en route to The Montagu, sparking the conversation I knew we had to have. "When do you go?"

"Mark," she said, her voice throaty. "I don't want to talk about it right now."

"Bridget," I said firmly. "We have to talk about it some time. It's a reality we have to deal with."

She sighed. "Next Saturday."

I guessed she didn't mean in three days. "Back to LA?"

She nodded.

"When will I be able to come and see you? What's next on your plate?"

"Um," she said. "I've had a few offers. I'm still deciding what to do next, though my agent has definite opinions."

"That's sort of what they're for," I said gently. "You will let me know when you decide?"

She nodded.

We got to The Montagu, and I was fully prepared to kiss her goodnight and send her on her way, but she grasped my suit lapels and desperately pressed her lips to mine. "Stay with me," she whispered tremulously. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

I thought about it for a moment, thought about being caught coming out of her hotel the next morning, about the logistics of getting back to my house… and then decided I didn't care about any of that. She wanted me there, so I needed to be there for her.

After paying for the taxi, we went into the hotel, my hand at her waist to assure her I was really there. It wasn't Carol at the front desk, but I couldn't help chuckle. "Be sure to tell the front desk I'm in your good books now," I explained. That at least elicited a smile.

We took the lift up to her floor, went for her room. "Swanky," she said.

It was a generously sized and elegantly furnished suite, with a double bed, a large television, a mini bar. I suspected the decoration on the wall was original Georgian, but that alone didn't really qualify it as 'swanky' to me. "It's very nice," I said. "What makes you call it swanky?"

"No," she explained. "That's how they classify the room. There's Comfy, Fancy and Swanky."

"Oh," I said, smiling. I held out my hand to her. "Come here, darling."

I saw her lower lip trembling, but she stepped forward into my embrace. I held her close.

I murmured into her ear, "I didn't get a chance to tell you before how gorgeous you look." She did; her hair was down and loose on her shoulders, her dress of pale blue cotton brought out the blue in her eyes. The high-heeled shoes she was wearing closed the distance of our heights considerably. I kissed her on the cheek, ran my hands over her back. "Absolutely gorgeous."

She brought her arms up around my neck, raked her nails through my hair and sighed.

I thought just about then that maybe we had done all the talking we needed to do that night. I pulled my head back and kissed her hard, my hands coming down over her backside then up again. She moaned into my mouth and returned the kiss with equal roughness and intensity. I blamed the quick fanning of the flames of passion on the fact that we had been sleeping together for less than a week, had been apart for three days since our last liaison. We didn't undress; we only took off or pushed aside what was strictly necessary to satisfy our needs. Only when we were through did I hold her to me with tenderness.

"You'll stay?" she asked as she buried her cheek into my shirt.

"Of course." I brought my hands up to the zipper on the back of her dress and tugged it down. "How about we have a shower then go to bed?"

"Okay." She sat up, then stood, slipping out of her rumpled dress, pulling off her shoes.

We washed in relative silence. I took great pleasure in lathering up her hair, running soapy hands over her body, and she seemed to enjoy reciprocating. By the time we got out and towelled dry she looked completely exhausted. I took her hand again and led her to the bed, pulling the bedclothes back. She climbed in; I spooned up behind her and planted a kiss on the back of her ear before resting my head on the pillow. The bed was extremely comfortable and I must have needed the sleep more than I thought, because I drifted off quickly.

The brightening sky through the crack in the curtains was what woke me; she was sound asleep beside me, had apparently not moved at all. I consulted my watch, which I had placed on the bedside table. It was not even five in the morning. I hated the thought of leaving, but there was the matter of getting home to shave and change clothes before going to work.

Stealthily I slipped from the bed and into the loo. I used the toilet, splashed water on my face then crept out into the main room again. I found she had awakened when she said, "Morning."

"Oh, good morning, darling," I said, en route to the pile of clothing I had folded before we'd showered the night before. "I was trying not to disturb you."

"What are you doing?"

"Have to leave."

"What time is it?"

"About five."

"Oh."

The depth of sadness in that one syllable stopped me in my tracks, diverting me to the bed again to sit beside her. "I suppose I don't have to go quite yet," I conceded.

"I don't want you to be late."

"It's all right," I assured. In the burgeoning light I could see the highlights of her face, and I lifted my fingers to trace along her cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

She nodded, then offered a smile. "Very well. Thanks. Helped that you were here."

I took her hand, then brought it up to kiss the back of it. "I'm glad." She turned her hand over, stroking my cheek in return. I turned and placed a kiss on the inside of her wrist, closing my eyes. I could still smell the fresh scent of soap on her skin. She tangled her fingers into my hair, then pulled me forward to kiss me.

It's not difficult to conclude what happened next. I think I needed it as much as she did, slow, reverent lovemaking to counteract the frenzy of the previous night. I didn't want to leave her, not to go to work, not for her to go back to Los Angeles. If I thought about it too much I felt panicked, so I pushed it down and thought instead of right now, of the afterglow in her arms, her soft breathing, her warmth against me.

"One of the scripts my agent was saying I should look at," she said softly and unexpectedly, "is a production filming entirely on location in Tuscany."

"Oh?" I asked. Italy was much closer than Los Angeles.

"Mm-hm," she said, then turned over to look at me. "I think it's just moved to the top of my list."

I smiled. "I like the sound of that." With a smile she leaned towards me and started to kiss me again.

The room's telephone rang just then, startling us. "Oh, hell. I bet that's my wake up call." She reached over to answer, murmured a few words, then hung up. "It's seven."

I _really_ needed to go. "Hell," I echoed, pushed the sheets back. "Sorry I can't stay any longer."

"It's okay. I'd've rather had you again then have eaten breakfast."

I felt my skin flush, and was thankful that the lamps were not on. "Eat something when I leave," I mock-scolded. "I would hate to see those beautiful curves slip away."

She grinned at me. Whatever funk she had been in the night before, she seemed to have recovered from it. I think news of a possible Italian job helped to bring my spirits up as well.

She phoned down to concierge to ask them to get a taxi for me while I got dressed. I kissed her longingly, promising to call later before heading out of the room and down the lift.

…

The next week and a half passed far too quickly. I wanted to drive her to Heathrow for her plane, but she didn't want to say goodbye to me with so many people around. Instead she and her things spent the last night, Friday night, with me at my house. We did nothing special, just sat with dinner and watched a film, the same film we'd tried to watch that night weeks ago. I suspected eventually we would make it through to the end. This was not that time.

"Don't cry," I said, though felt quite emotional myself. The car to take her to the airport was waiting at the kerb. "We'll see each other soon enough."

She wiped under her eyes and nodded. "I'll miss you, though."

"I will miss you, too." I bent and gave her a kiss; she latched onto me with a tight hug. I brought my arms up and around her.

"I wish you could come," she murmured into my hair.

I can't say I hadn't thought about it, but my current caseload forbade it. "I wish the same," I said, stroking her hair before urging her back. "The car's waiting," I reminded. I heard it sound the horn again, as if to emphasise the point. I briefly took her face in my hand. "Let's see you off."

She nodded. I picked up her suitcases and together we went out the front door. The driver met me at the boot, and we loaded the bags into the car. She got into the back seat. With the door still open, I crouched down beside her and took her hand in mine.

"Safe travels, darling," I said tenderly.

She nodded again. I kissed the back of her hand, got to my feet, closed the door, then took a step back.

As the car slowly pulled from the kerb, the window went down and her face poked through, looking at me earnestly. "Mark?" she called.

"Yes?"

"I love you too!"

Before I had a chance to reply, the car sped away and made a right turn. I stepped back again, feeling rocked back on my heels, but in a teary, pleasant way. She loved me, and she'd remembered my slip from so many days ago. I hoped she realised I had been sincere. I hadn't said anything more since that day.

I went back into the house, swelling with conflicting emotions. I was ecstatic; I was devastated. To hear such a thing only to have the one you love have to go, how was I supposed to feel? I rang her mobile, but she must have turned the ringer off, or it was packed deep in her bag. I chose to leave a message.

"It's me. Mark." I paused to clear my throat at the sound of my voice sounding so unlike itself. "I love you, Bridget. Too." I mentally hit myself hard on the head. "As well."

I didn't expect that she'd get the message until she landed in Los Angeles. Between the flight and the time difference, I didn't hear from her until the following day, and it was courtesy a return message on my mobile left for me early in my day, late night in Los Angeles.

"Hope you fancy Tuscany in July."

I smiled to myself as I disconnected; she must have spoken to her agent upon touchdown. I immediately called her number. I was just finishing work on Monday. It meant she was probably just waking; it rang a few times before she answered, which was testimony to that.

"Hi," she said. Her voice was as crystal clear as if she was standing whispering in my ear, and it pained my heart.

"Hello," I said. "Sleep well?"

"Mmm, pretty well." I was still getting used to the American accent. "Nice to be back in my own bed—well, you know what I mean."

I had been on enough extended business trips, stayed in enough hotels to know what she was getting at: she was glad to be home. I didn't take it to mean she didn't miss me. "I know."

"What time is it there?" she asked.

"Six-thirty."

"In the evening?" She whistled. "So you're already done with work and everything for the day?"

"Yes," I said. "I got your message. I think it sounds fantastic."

"Oh goodie," she said. I could just imagine the smile on her face.

"Hope you're resting before then, taking some time off and relaxing."

"Mm-hmm," she said. "Have some things to take care of. I'll be seeing Xavier too."

The insecurity that welled within me was irrational. "The two of you are regular jet-setters."

She chuckled. "Well, we both do live here."

I felt as if my stomach had been plunged into ice water. "There?"

"Mark," she said, "we're still technically married and share a house. We are hardly ever here at the same time." She paused. "He has his own room."

I let out a breath I didn't realise I had been holding in. She laughed.

"You didn't _really_ think—"

"Of course not, Bridget," I said. I started to chuckle too. It was ludicrous. The initial reaction was just knee-jerk, a sore spot that I supposed would always be there thanks to my ex-wife.

"Good," she said softly. She sighed. "I have to go. I don't want to be late. Having lunch with some friends."

"Have a nice time in the sunshine," I said. We'd had a spot of summer rain, so the sky had been grey and overcast all day. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye." I paused, then added, "I love you."

"Love you too." She giggled. "As well."

We disconnected. Rather than go home to eat supper all on my own, I decided to go and have dinner out. I needn't have bothered. I felt just as lonely amongst the crowd of other patrons. I had briefly considered ringing up a friend, but I couldn't really think of anyone to call. Natasha and I had had some good, spirited dinner conversations in the past, but now that I was seeing someone she had been pointedly avoiding me except when necessary for business purposes. Jeremy I knew would be home with his wife, not to mention that he (and Giles for that matter) would have likely spent the entirety of dinner trying to pump me for information about my romance with Bridget; knowing what I did of both Jeremy's and Giles' marriages, I suspected that while they were genuinely concerned for me, they would really just be going for a vicarious thrill.

…

Filming was due to begin at the end of July for _La Cascina del Sole_. I felt as if the days could not move fast enough. I was busily trying to wrap up as much as I could so that I would not have to worry about my cases while I was gone. I didn't know how long she was going to be there, and I didn't expect to spend the entire time in Tuscany with her, but I wanted to be free to join her when I could. The flight from London to that part of Italy was only an hour long.

I still had two long weeks until Tuscany, so I didn't mind working a little later to get through the work. I was on my way home on that Friday evening, stuck in traffic as usual, when my mobile rang. It was Bridget. With a grin, I flipped it to hands-free mode to talk.

"Hello, darling."

"Hi," she said. It never failed to amaze me, the clarity of her voice coming across the miles. "Did I catch you at supper?"

"No," I said. "On my way home."

"Oh," she said. "Late night?"

"Yes," I said. "Trying my damndest to clear my diary before I see you again."

"Bet you're tired," she said sympathetically.

"Yes," I said wearily. "I'm so close I can practically see my street. Bloody traffic." I heard a loud, thundering sound just then coming through the speaker. "What are you doing?"

"Have had an exhausting day," she said, which I thought odd, as it would only be eleven in the morning where she was. "I'm going to have a bubble bath."

It was an alluring thought, one for which I wanted to chastise her, as I could do nothing more than listen to her describe it to me.

"You should have one too, while I do," she continued. "Very relaxing."

It did sound good, and I didn't get to use that bathtub often enough. "I will."

At last I reached my house, turned into my drive. I switched off the ignition. "You just got home, didn't you?"

"Mm-hmm." I walked to the door and turned the key. I could honestly say that I was looking forward more to the bath than to supper. "I'm going to need a little time to run—"

As I walked in the house, closed the door behind me, I stopped dead in my tracks. I could hear a sound in stereo, in the earpiece and coming from upstairs, and both sounds stopped at the same time, the sound of—

"The water," I finished, my heart suddenly pounding. "_Bridget_."

"Hm?" she said.

"Where are you, precisely?"

"In the bathtub," she responded.

I dashed up the stairs, through my bedroom and into the bath. There, surrounded by mountains of bubbles, was Bridget's ruddy pink and devilishly smiling face. She disconnected the call then dropped her mobile onto a folded towel.

"Surprise," she said.

Naturally I was ecstatic to see her; unfortunately, the first statement to fall out my mouth was the stupid, "How did you get in?"

For a moment, she looked very hurt. "Fine," she said. "You can have this tub to yourself." She got up on her knees in an apparent attempt to get up and out of the bath, and I was so taken by the sight of the suds sliding down her shining skin that I almost forgot to speak.

"I mean—" I began, then, deciding there were no words to adequately express how happy I was to see her, I bent over the bathtub, took her face in my hand and kissed her, not caring that I got the front and the elbow of my suit jacket soaking wet. "Sorry," I said upon pulling back. "I was in shock." I hoped my apology was sufficient.

She allowed a smile and relented, sitting back down. "I was only teasing," she said. "I didn't fly all this way to bathe alone."

I got to my feet and set a land-speed record for disrobing.

"Your housekeeper," she explained as I climbed in. "The upside of everyone knowing who you're seeing. She knew who I was and let me in."

I made a mental note to give the housekeeper a bonus as I sat beside her, took her in my arms, pulled her across my lap and held her close before drawing away again. I studied her face, her eyes, her lips, disbelieving she was really here. I kissed her before snuggling into her damp hair. "It is good to have you here," I whispered, my voice a bit more unsteady than usual.

"Good to be here," she said. "I've missed you so." For that split-second statement she reverted to her English accent smoothly and flawlessly. "Flight felt like an eternity, and planning this and not being able to tell you was hell."

I wondered exactly how long ago she'd planned this. "I hope you'll think it's worth it when I tell you this is the best thing that's happened to me all week."

"Oh, it was definitely worth it." She slid from my lap to sit beside me in order to more fully submerge herself in the hot water, but leaned into me as I leaned back to enjoy the water. We sat in this manner for what felt like quite some time. I could feel the stress exuding from my every pore, and I didn't think it was strictly the hot bath.

"So you're here for…" I trailed off. I hated to think of her flying all this way only to turn around and fly back on Sunday.

"The interim," she said smugly. "Until Tuscany."

I was speechless. She evidently misinterpreted it.

"Oh Mark, sorry. I hope that's okay."

"No," I said, then belatedly realised how bad it sounded. "I mean yes, it's okay; no, don't be sorry. You don't have any business left in Los Angeles?"

"All concluded. I am free." She raked her nails over my chest, turned her face to me. "As for my stay, though, I sort of assumed…" She didn't finish. I almost didn't notice, the way those blue eyes looked up at me.

"What?" I prompted.

"That it would be okay to stay with you."

I started to laugh, then bent and kissed her. "I wouldn't have it any other way," I said. "Gilded cages are not for you."

She smiled coyly then reached to place a kiss on my jaw. Her fingers went around my side and she turned to float on the water over me, pulling her chest up close to mine. "Told you so, about the bath," she said before placing her mouth on my neck, grazing her teeth on my skin. In that moment I felt just how acutely I'd missed her, and made a rather big splash tugging her up against me, taking her around the waist, kissing her throat, her chin, her cheek in search of her mouth.

In general we made a bit of a mess with soapy water on the floor around the bathtub, which we chuckled about afterwards as we reclined and sighed in a much-reduced, ever-tepid bath. Carefully we emerged after I threw a couple of towels onto the floor to soak up the water, and we padded over to the shower to clean up any soapy remnants. I suggested dinner, suggested she take my robe while I dressed in casual clothes and phoned for a Thai takeaway. I would have two weeks to pamper her with home cooking.

I realised her day must have started a long, long time ago; I could tell she was trying to brazen it out, but I noticed how sleepy she seemed as I concluded the telephone call. I insisted she have a lie down while I went for food. She nodded, took off the robe, turned down the sheets and climbed in. I pecked a kiss goodbye, fondly stroking her temple.

As I dashed down the stairs I saw that I had a missed call. Jeremy. I cursed under my breath; I had forgotten completely about arranging to have drinks. I phoned him as I went to the Thai place.

"Change of plans," I said after we'd traded greetings.

"What?"

"I came home to find a surprise visitor," I said.

There was a pause of a few beats before he said, "Wouldn't happen to be a female visitor, would it?"

The residual satisfaction of our tryst must have been evident in my voice.

"Right," he said. "Have a nice time. Don't overtax yourself."

I chuckled. "Good night, Jeremy."


	8. Chapter 8: Decisions, Decisions

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 5,066  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 8: Decisions, Decisions

When I returned with the takeaway I went directly back upstairs and found she hadn't moved at all. I was extremely tempted to let her sleep, but I didn't think I'd do her any favours in letting the pad Thai go cold. I sat down on the bed, brushed my hand over her bare shoulder.

"Mmm," she said groggily.

"I'm back with food," I said.

"Mmm," she said again, turning over.

It struck me just then how badly I wanted this to be the norm and not the exception.

"Hope you're hungry."

She smiled as she opened her eyes and blearily looked at me. "Definitely worth the flight."

I handed her one of my cotton tee shirts, and we ate supper right there in bed, sitting up against the headboard, then upon finishing I stacked our empty cartons, set them on the bedside table, and proceeded to kiss one another, cuddle up with one another, trying to make up for that time we'd been apart, something no one in a new relationship should be forced to endure. My subconscious, however, was starting to sabotage me, tried to pummel me with thoughts of the future. How could I go about making this my life every day? Was it even possible?

"Have a terrible time sleeping on planes," she said. "Think I will have no problem sleeping tonight."

I briefly tightened my embrace, and felt her nails trace on my shoulder before her hand fell away to rest on the bed. I reared my head back a little and saw her eyes were closed. I gave her a few minutes to fall into a deeper sleep state, gazing upon her peaceful features with what was probably a sickening expression of adoration before slipping out of the bed and into my robe. It was barely nine-thirty, and I was not yet tired enough to go to sleep. I took our containers from dinner down to the kitchen bin, then paused to have a glass of wine.

I'm not sure what prompted me to do this, exactly. Perhaps it was just habit. As I sipped, I went to the windows overlooking the back garden and as twilight descended, those subordinate thoughts returned. We were too different. We lived continents apart. How did I expect this to last?

I drained the wineglass and realised that I was sitting down here getting slightly pissed and prognosticating doom and gloom when I had a beautiful woman asleep in my bed, one who had just flown a considerable distance just to see me. I smirked, catching my reflection in the window as I did so. My expression defined smug.

Depositing the glass on the counter, I made the trip back upstairs and got ready for bed, then disrobed and slipped in beside her. It wasn't much later than when I'd left, but I was feeling ready to sleep. I settled in, got comfortable. As I dozed off she turned to snuggle up to me. It was something I thought I could get used to very quickly, indeed.

…

When morning came, she was still sleeping, and not even my rising to use the toilet caused her to budge. I crawled in beside her again, was actually becoming concerned because she'd slept for nearly twelve hours, when she stirred and stretched, yawning.

"Morning," I said.

She blinked groggily, smiled crookedly. "Morning. Mmm. I have to say, you have one hell of a comfy-cosy bed."

I bent down over her, pulled myself up close to her, and pressed my lips to hers. "Have I mentioned," I said, "how glad I am you're here?"

"You have expressed your approval, yes," she said with a smirk, then brought her arms up and around my neck as she kissed me again. One thing led to another and before I knew it we were panting, practically tearing off our nightclothes, until we reached ultimate satisfaction.

Lazily I dragged my fingertips over the small of her back as she rested on me. "Hungry?"

"Mm," she said from where she was nuzzled into my neck. "Yeah, worked up a little appetite, there." To underscore the point her teeth grazed gently on my neck, then she giggled. "Best way to wake up, ever."

"Agreed."

She raised her head and looked into my eyes. "Mark," she began, suddenly seeming too serious, "when you look at me, what do you see?"

I knew what she meant. Scores of people looked at her and saw an actress, a celebrity. I thought about that book launch, the first time I really saw her for the beautiful girl she was, outside and in; not perfect, but who among us was? "I'm pretty sure I see the real you."

She smiled, then said, "Excellent answer," before she dropped her head down and kissed me again.

Eventually and reluctantly we went downstairs for something to eat and some coffee. We generally spent a good deal of the day being very sloth-like, not doing much at all, just relishing one another's company and embrace. Sunday was spent in that manner too, though we dared to venture outside for a walk through Holland Park. No one had caught wind that Bridget Cavendish was in town, and our story was no longer front-page material. I was for once grateful for the fickleness of the yellow press.

Of course, I had to work on Monday. I still had a lot to take care of before Tuscany, even if I wasn't to be staying on the entire time she was filming. She told me not to worry, that she would keep herself entertained. "After all," she reminded me, "I lived on my own in London before my cover was blown."

I was thankful we could joke about that now. With a smile, I excused myself and went to the top drawer of the desk in my office and dug out the spare key to give to her. I turned and found her at the door, looking in wonder at my legal tomes.

"Do you work in here?"

"Sometimes, yes," I said.

"Why not work here at home while I'm staying?"

I laughed under my breath. "Because I don't think I'd get anything accomplished."

She grinned lopsidedly.

As for working at the house, I did have a meeting on Wednesday night at the house as usually happened about once a month, but had not happened since some time in May. She promised she would stay out the way watching a bit of telly and studying her script. There was a group of about ten of us altogether. Only one, Richard, had not shown and we could not raise him on his mobile; Jeremy was present as were Giles and Natasha. I could see all three of them in their way looking around for evidence of my current romance.

Everything was going along smoothly and I thought the meeting would be finished ahead of schedule. We were just about through when my fax machine started going off. As Giles continued speaking, I quietly got up and went over to see what was arriving.

Just as I did, I heard a faint little rap on the door of the office. Giles paused in his speech and before I could get to the door to answer it Giles called out with rather more authority than I was used to hearing from him, "Come in."

The door opened slowly, and Bridget poked her head in. She looked around and quickly found me. I held up her fax. "I am so sorry to interrupt," she said quietly, tentatively coming in and closing the door behind her. "I have to sign and send it back right away."

"Bridget," said Giles with a smile. "Thought you were our missing member. Had no idea you were even here."

I had thought it best not to mention her visit to any of them.

"Mark didn't say?"

"No," I said. "I thought it best to keep your visit hush-hush."

From the change of her expression, it was clear that she understood and agreed; she'd gone from slightly hurt to nodding in agreement. "Yes, of course. If you have a pen…"

As she signed the paper, I noticed what it was she was signing, initialling every page as acknowledged. I held back the urge to insist she read it before doing so because it was unmistakable as a legal document; in fact, I could clearly tell these were something relating to her divorce. "I'll need to express the original back in the morning," she said.

None of the meeting participants had said another word. Jeremy was grinning madly. Natasha looked like her features were carved out of ice. As the pages fed into the fax machine, Bridget turned to the group. "Oh, I remember you, Jeremy. How are you?"

"Very well. And yourself?"

"Good," she said. "Getting ready to film in Italy."

"Oh," he said. "Well, that explains Mark's sudden urge to holiday in Italy."

I felt my face heat up with embarrassment.

"And… Natasha, isn't it? Nice to see you again."

"Bridget," she said neutrally. I knew Natasha well, knew she was caught between wanting to impress a renowned actress and despising the woman that had, in her own mind, stolen me away from her.

"This is Bridget," I said suddenly, as if they didn't already know. In turn I introduced each of the rest of them by name to her. She went around and shook their hands, offering a winning smile.

"It's very nice to meet you, Ms Cavendish," said Derek. "I'm a big fan of your work." I had never seen him look so moony-eyed.

"That's very nice of you to say," she said humbly. "You all work with Mark? You're lawyers?"

"Barristers," corrected Natasha, then smiled in a cloying way to make up for the fact that she was being bitchy.

"Of course," Bridget said. "I forgot there's a distinction here. Well. Best leave you to your meeting. Sorry to interrupt."

"Bye," called Jeremy as she left.

Not unexpectedly, the attention of the meeting was scattered after that. Giles got through the rest of what he wanted to say, but it was clear where everyone's mind was.

"Well," I said, hoping to spur a mass exodus out of my house. I wanted some supper. "Best break things up."

"Right," said Giles. As everyone filed out, as I ushered them to the door, I could see them looking around for a trace of her. "So," Giles said. "Things going well with you and Bridget?"

I nodded. "Very well."

"And…" His tone dropped to a confidential one; he wiggled his eyebrows. "How _is_ she?"

I knew exactly what he was asking; he wanted detail of what she was like in bed, anything to spark his imagination. I was not about to give it to him.

"Very good," Natasha supplied cattily, "if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to judge by."

I did not appreciate the scrutiny, did not like at all that they were even thinking about our being intimate. Curtly I said, "Goodnight, Giles, Natasha."

Once they were gone, I went and found her where I had left her before, in the sitting room reading through the script. When she glanced up at me she looked pained. "I'm really sorry," she said. "They phoned to say they were faxing it and that I had to get it back immediately. It had to be there by noon in LA."

I shook my head, held up my hand. "Don't worry about it. It's okay." I sat beside her, put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her to me. "What do you say about pizza?"

"I shouldn't," she said, seemingly torn. I knew how much she liked pizza. "It's fattening."

I kissed her cheek, nuzzled into the hair at her temple. "We could always work it off later."

She giggled, then turned to kiss me, drawing her fingernails lightly over my cheek, causing me to shiver. For a moment I thought we would end up working it off now.

"Okay," she agreed, raking her fingers up through my hair, her eyes searching mine. She looked inexplicably melancholy for the briefest of seconds before smiling again. "Pepperoni."

It was my cue to make the call. I reached down for my mobile, dialled the pizza place that I had programmed in before she'd gone home, and learned that we had an hour before it would arrive.

"Maybe we could watch that movie," she said, curling in close to me. I laughed. I knew which film she meant, the one we had tried watching on several occasions and always ended up not finishing because we would scurry off to make love. "We could start it from the middle. Maybe we'll make it through this time." She sat upright at that moment. "Oh! A better idea. Hold on."

She stood up and dashed out of the room. I had no earthly idea where she was going.

When she came downstairs she looked extremely pleased with herself. She held out her hand. It was an unmarked DVD case.

"What's this?" I asked, taking it from her.

"Open it," she said with a smirk.

I cracked open the case and found inside two discs, each of them printed tidily with the name of the unavailable miniseries of hers I had been longing to see. My mouth dropped open.

"Promise me not to sell it on eBay," she said teasingly.

"How did you…" I began, then stopped. It didn't matter. "Thank you," I said.

"I would have given it to you sooner," she said, sitting beside me again, "but I was… distracted."

I laughed low in my throat. I set the case down, then reached over and kissed her. "I'll watch it, watch you, another time," I said. "Right now I'd rather focus my attention on the real thing."

It was a good thing we hadn't put that film on again, because we would have just missed the end once more, or in this case, been too occupied to notice what was happening on the screen; we didn't even wait to go upstairs to make love. I knew we were just in the full flush of new love, that this level of hair-trigger arousal was the exception and not the norm. It didn't mean I enjoyed it any less.

"I think," she said, "that we should predict how it ends. I think it'll be that he was dead the whole time."

I chuckled; I knew this was the ending of another film, not this one. "It'll turn out that Rosebud was a sled."

"No," she said thoughtfully. "Maybe they drive off a cliff. Or she was really a he."

I was really laughing now. "Or Ilsa goes off and leaves Rick with Victor Laszlo."

She giggled. I was pleased she knew the classic films. "You know what?" she said, snuggling into me further. "I hope we never watch the end. I think whatever the real ending is won't compare."

"Mmm," I concurred.

The bell on the front door went off, and it was only then I remembered we had a pizza on order. I kissed her on the lips then stood, righting my trousers. "Be right back."

She stood, smoothing down her shirt, stepping into her jeans. "I'll get us some wine."

We left the room together. She diverted towards the stairs to the kitchen while I swept up my wallet from the table in the foyer as I strode towards the door to open it and welcome our dinner into the house.

I brought the box into the sitting room and set it on the coffee table. I thought with some amusement how the Mark Darcy of six months prior would not have dreamed of bringing messy, greasy pizza into this room. I found something light and amusing on the telly just as she came up with a bottle of wine and two glasses. I would have to keep myself to one, maybe two glasses; it was mid-week, after all, and I still had a work day ahead of me.

She came to bed when I did, washed up with me, curled up in my arms as if we'd been doing it for years. I don't think I ever slept nearly as well as I did when she was there with me. There was, however, the persistent feeling that the other shoe was going to drop at any moment, and I think the recesses of my mind were working to ward that off, to find a permanent solution to our long-term problem. I knew it would involve one of us relocating to be near the other, and I couldn't see either of us doing it. That was the problem, and it seemed insurmountable.

…

We had another week or so of this domestic bliss before leaving to go to Tuscany. No amount of literature, art or film footage could prepare me for the beauty of the place. I almost felt like we were arriving for our honeymoon.

I knew I couldn't stay the entire time they'd be filming. The shooting schedule was something like two to three months, and I just couldn't afford, professionally speaking, to be out of London all of that time. We decided I'd stay for two weeks regardless of her schedule, then I'd make weekend trips after that when I could, which I decided would be as often as possible.

We basked in the delightful sunbathed vistas of the Italian countryside, strolled hand in hand through the town, dined at bistros and sampled the local cuisine before retiring for the night, the fresh breeze blowing across our skin as we took to bed in the evenings.

Monday morning proved the reality of her working when her car arrived even before the sun rose, even though we knew it was going to happen. For as difficult as it was to wake her when she wanted to sleep on her days off, she rose and prepared to go and only woke me as she was about to leave. "I'll see you later," she whispered, kissing me goodbye, running her fingers lovingly along my hairline.

"Okay," I said drowsily.

I was able to do some work on those days which I stayed behind in our little villa, reading up on approaching court dates and keeping up on professional communications and current events via my laptop, but there were days on which I accompanied her to the set. It was an eye opener, even more so than my trip to Ealing Studios. The most difficult thing for me to watch were the love scenes. This was more of a romantic dramatic film; the scenes were not racy or graphic, and the sex was left to the imagination. However, watching her act as if she were captivated by her co-star, falling in love, desperately kissing after palpable sexual tension, was not an easy thing for me, even though I knew it was only acting. She seemed to sense how I felt, and took good care to ensure I knew what was happening on the set was only acting… and warned me ahead of time which days would likely have such scenes, giving me the choice to accompany her or stay behind at the villa. I chose to go; I didn't say anything, but it made me want to go all the more.

Regardless, I was fascinated by the process and strove to be as unobtrusive as possible. By the end of the day she was usually exhausted, so I did my best to help her rest and relax. We had a hot tub at our disposal, and though we could have had the services of a professional masseuse she preferred that I rub her shoulders and her feet.

We were in the earliest days of August when my two weeks in Tuscany were over. I was to leave on Sunday, so we spent the whole of Saturday together. I tried to stay strong for her as she wept in my arms, but I could not say I was myself unaffected.

"We can talk every night," I said soothingly to her. "And I'll be able to return in two weeks." She nodded. It would not really be enough, but it would have to do for now.

As the days, weeks went on, I was more determined than ever to do whatever I needed to do to be with her, even if it meant relocating to Los Angeles.

…

September drew to a close, and so did the filming of _La Cascina del Sole_. It meant she would be returning to America, but I felt a sense of peace. I had accepted that I would need to make a major change in my life in order to be with her. I didn't know when it would happen, but I knew that it would.

I spent her last weekend in Tuscany with her. She seemed moody, withdrawn, which seemed perfectly normal given we were about to be separated again with no prospect of European filming. I decided to let her in on my plan to eventually go to America so that we could be together on a more permanent basis.

It seemed, though, that she had other ideas.

We stood on the balcony of the villa's bedroom, the villa that had been her home for two and a half months. The sun had set though still coloured the sky in darkening orange hues, and the breeze blew through her hair, which was down and loose and longer than I'd remembered. "Mark," she said quietly. "We need to talk."

I placed my hand on hers. "I know."

"No, you don't," she said. I heard a barely disguised sob in her voice. "I don't want to spoil our last evening together, but I think it's only fair to be upfront."

Only then did I feel the first twinges of dread. "What about?"

She looked down. I could see her biting on her lower lip, a habit of hers when she was feeling nervous. "The future. I love you and I know you love me, but I think everything's gone too quickly."

I felt stunned. I didn't like the direction this was taking. "What are you saying?" She didn't look at me, didn't reply. "Bridget, tell me."

She turned her very misty eyes to me. "We need to take a break."

"A break?"

Tears slid down her cheeks. "You're going to make me say it, aren't you?"

"I don't want to misunderstand," I said a little gruffly, "because to me it sounds like you're splitting up with me."

She glanced down. "I guess I am."

I may as well have been knocked in the stomach for the lack of ability I had to speak at first. "Bridget, why?"

"We can't live this way," she said. "Hoping, waiting, not knowing when we'll see one another again. It's too much. It's best to cut things clean, part on good terms."

"But Bridget," I said. "I could move to Los Angeles." It was the only part of my plan I was able to get out.

"No," she said immediately. "I don't want or expect you to throw away everything you are, everything you love to do, your work and your home and your family, just for me. I couldn't live with the knowledge that you'd given it all up for me."

"But…" I began, then said nothing. She had obviously given this a lot of thought, too, and I didn't want to beg and plead when she had clearly made up her mind, did not consider coming to London as an option. I brought my hands up and wiped under her eyes with my thumbs before cradling her face. "If that's what you want," I said.

She nodded. I had a hard time believing it.

I kissed her, held her close, caressed her skin; she allowed me to make love to her, and I took my time, as if it might be the last night we ever had together. I saw tears escape her eyes even as she moaned, as we moved together in rhythm; we slept clung together; we rose in the morning and went through the motions in silence. She kissed my cheek, stroked my skin, and offered only a quiet goodbye before I left for my taxi. I did not say goodbye in return, as that would be tacit acknowledgement that it was over, and I couldn't do that.

As the car wove through the streets of town and out towards the airport, I steeled my heart against the pain. I was more determined than ever that this would not be the end.

…

I gave her a week before I called. I didn't want to seem pushy. It didn't matter, though, because she didn't answer. I left a message, then tried a few more times during the course of the day. I got the hint quickly.

My colleagues knew something was up, and Jeremy was kind enough to lend an ear over drinks shortly after I returned. I didn't like bearing my soul in such a way, did not like admitting to my failures, but in the end I was glad I had spoken to him. I felt lighter, and felt validated when he said she had been wrong to 'do the right thing' by cutting me loose.

"I'm sorry, mate," he said. "She seemed like a great gal. And I'm not just saying that because she's a movie star. I remember when I thought she was just a girl working at a publishing house. I liked her then too."

"Movie star didn't hurt, though, did it?" I said, feeling recovered enough to joke a bit.

"Have to admit it doesn't," he said, winking. "I've seen her films. Gorgeous doesn't begin to cut it."

It was a random pass through my sitting room that spurred me into real action. I was home alone on Friday, about two weeks since we had split, when I spotted the unlabelled DVD case, the one she'd brought for me of the impossible-to-find miniseries. I convinced myself I would be perfectly able to watch, that I had distanced myself from the hurt of her chucking me, and figured I could watch the first episode over supper.

I ended up watching the entire thing. I ended up crying my eyes out. I hadn't cried since she'd left, but seeing her even on the screen, even from more than a decade ago, reached past my defences and touched my heart in a way nothing else had managed to.

I needed to see her. I needed to convince her that being with her was all I really wanted. But she wouldn't talk to me. I didn't know what to do.

And then I remembered: I could circumvent speaking to her directly. I had Xavier's number, and as far as I knew, they were still legally husband and wife. I had programmed it into my mobile just to have it. It was two in the morning here in London. Not too late in Los Angeles, provided that's where he was.

"_Bonjour_," Xavier answered. "Who's this?"

"Xavier, it's Mark Darcy. I don't know if you remember me." It felt silly even as I said it. How could he not remember the man with whom his wife had fallen in love?

"Oh." He paused. "Nice to hear from you."

His tone seemed strained, a bit off. "Have I reached you at a bad time?"

"I'm just at dinner." I could hear a voice in the background, a woman's voice, ask who it was. I realised it was Bridget. I tried not to jump to conclusions. "One moment." He placed he hand over the mouthpiece of his phone, then said to Bridget, "_Pardonne-moi__, chèrie_."

A few moments later Xavier was clearly speaking more freely. "Mark, of course I remember you. I am sorry to hear about… well. How are you?"

"I've been better," I said. "I really want to speak to Bridget, but…" I didn't feel the need to finish my sentence, and what Xavier said next only reaffirmed that.

"She told me she broke it off. I told her she's mad."

I chuckled in my relief. "Good to know you're on my side," I said. "Could you talk to her, tell her to take my call, tell her to please call me?"

"I have been doing so, Mark," he said. "She is being very stubborn."

"You can say that again." I ran my hand over my face in exasperation.

"She is worried about you throwing away your career," Xavier said. "She thinks you should just forget her and carry on with your life."

_Unlikely_, I thought. "What if I come to Los Angeles? I could be there within the week. If I could just plead my case in person…"

"There would be little point in coming to LA," he said. "She's taking time off. She's going to visit her family. She's leaving in a few days, staying at least through the holidays."

"Oh." I felt my spirits dive further down.

"It's a little place called Lewiston," he said. "In New York. She's mentioned it?"

"We didn't talk about it by name," I said, "but I'd seen it online in her bio."

"I've been there," he said. "Beautiful colours in the autumn, Mark. Simply beautiful." He paused. "You should go sometime."

The seed of an idea began to germinate, one that I believed Xavier had intentionally planted. I could go there. "I might just do that."

"Good. I should probably get back to dinner, Mark. I'll send you a little information that'll help make your travel arrangements a little easier, yes?"

"Don't tell her it was me."

"My lips are sealed, my friend." After a beat, he added, "You know why we are dining?"

"No."

"The divorce is final. Strange thing to commemorate, is it not?"

I smiled. It felt a hollow victory. "Congratulations, I guess." He chuckled, we exchanged final pleasantries, and then we disconnected. Though I was suddenly exhausted, I felt better, more optimistic. Odd though to have her ex-husband on my side.

When I woke the next morning, I found that an SMS message had come through during the night, probably after he and Bridget had parted for the evening. It was Bridget's parents' address and telephone number in New York, with an additional note of "_Bonne chance_" at the end from Xavier.

I would need it.


	9. Chapter 9: New York State of Mind

**Double Take**

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 50,993  
This chapter: 4,519  
Rating: T / PG-13  
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

* * *

Chapter 9: New York State of Mind

I wasn't able to arrange everything for that weekend, but instead for two weeks later, arriving on the Wednesday just before Bonfire Night. Part of my delay too was that I had to lay down the roadmap for the Aghani case, which I then left in Jeremy's very capable hands. I was confident he would prevail on my behalf. On touchdown I was completely fatigued from the long flight, which made the forty-minute drive in my rental car even more challenging (_Keep to the right_, I chanted to myself like a mantra). I went straight for the room I'd taken in a bed and breakfast near to the river. I figured after a meal and a lie down I could go about trying to find her parents' abode.

The peace and quiet of the room gave me time to think. My friends and colleagues had thought me mad. My parents also wondered where my sanity had gone, but only wanted my happiness, and they had seen how much I loved her, so they wished me luck but told me to brace myself for an answer I didn't want to hear. I wondered too if her parents were typically bothered by the media, if rumours of her staying here in New York had spread and if paparazzi were crawling around in the bushes hoping for a candid shot. I hoped they thought better of me than that.

The rental car I had was equipped with a GPS navigational device. I was able to punch in the address Xavier had given to me, found that it was not terribly far from where I was staying. As I drove, my heart was pounding. Twilight was already falling upon the town, and as I approached the humble two-story brick building, I could see figures moving on the other side of the sheer curtains hanging in the window.

Before I could rationally think about it, I was standing on the front stoop pressing the doorbell. I hadn't meant to do it that night. Despite my nap and having had something to eat, I knew I probably did not look my best. Through the frosted glass of the front door I could see a ghostly shape approaching.

"Who's there?" It was a firm male voice. Father, possibly brother?

I cleared my throat. "My name's Mark. I'm here to see Bridget."

Silence, then the door swung open to reveal a man who must have been her father. Same blue eyes as Bridget behind those spectacles; grey hair clipped short; and an obviously genial face beneath the confusion. I thought he would look absolutely at home in a university classroom. "Mark. _English_ Mark."

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You're a long way from home."

"Yes, sir, I am."

"And you think she's here why, exactly?"

"Xavier told me."

He raised an eyebrow. "Did he, now?"

"Yes," I reaffirmed.

From behind her father I heard a male voice call out. "Dad? Who's there?" Two men came out from the back of the house, tall, brown-haired and blue-eyed. Must have been her brothers, Tom and Jude. One had close-cropped hair, and I guessed that was Jude, the English teacher; the other's hair was a bit longer, a bit shaggier, long enough to draw into a ponytail if he wanted to. That seemed to suit a flight instructor better; that must have been Tom.

"It's Mark," said her father, Richard.

Tom and Jude exchanged glances. "_That_ Mark?" the one I supposed was Jude asked; their father nodded.

With the way they were all eyeing me, I was beginning to feel ganged up on. "Is Bridget here?" I asked.

"She's with her mother," said Richard.

"Does she know you're here in the States?" asked the other brother, the one I thought was probably Tom.

"No."

"Well," said Richard. "It's chilly out there. Might as well come in."

I stepped in. "Thank you."

Richard closed the door behind me. I divested myself of my overcoat, waited for the inevitable onslaught of questions.

"You must have heard her divorce only became final," said her father as he sat in what was probably his usual spot on a suede leather sofa.

"Yes, sir," I said. "Xavier told me that as well."

"Is that why you're here?" Jude asked protectively.

"No," I said. "It may sound ridiculous, but it was the only way I could think of to get her to speak to me. She won't take my calls. She won't _return_ my calls."

"Maybe there's a reason for that."

I sighed. "I haven't done anything wrong," I said. I considered my words carefully. "We were happy. And then she split up with me because of the distance, because she didn't want me sabotaging my career for her. I thought when she left that if that's what she wanted, then that's the way it would have to be… but the more I thought about it, the more I realised it didn't matter what I did, didn't care if I cleaned dustbins for a living… I won't be happy without her. But I can't make her understand that if she doesn't let me talk to her."

They seemed to be contemplating what I'd said, didn't speak for several minutes.

"You understand why we feel the way we do," said Richard. "She always comes to us when she needs to feel safe, so she's obviously feeling vulnerable right now. And… well, no two ways about it, she's a wealthy woman, and I can't say we aren't aware that there are some who might be out to take advantage of her."

"We've always looked out for our little sister," said Tom.

"I can appreciate that, and understand completely," I said. "I know we have only just met, that you don't know me from any other stranger on the street, but I can assure you I am not trying to take advantage of her emotionally _or_ financially."

"I think she mentioned you're a lawyer?" asked Jude.

"Essentially, yes," I said, not wanting to get into the distinction of barrister versus solicitor. "I specialise in the area of human rights."

"That must pay well," Jude said with a hint of a smile. Was I winning them over?

"I own a house near Holland Park," I said by way of example, then realised this probably meant nothing to them, that I would have to draw upon a more localised example from my experience with colleagues here in the New World. "Um. Sort of like Fifth Avenue. Upper East Side of New York City."

I wasn't trying to brag. I was only trying to demonstrate that I was not interested in her money. They, however, could not hide that they were impressed.

"A house?" asked Jude.

"A house," I said.

Tom actually whistled under his breath. I saw her father outright smile as a result.

"I hate to sound like some kind of seventeenth-century Austenian patriarch," said Richard, "but what exactly are your intentions regarding my daughter?"

"I love her," I said without hesitation, "and I want only to make her happy."

"And what if what makes her happy is for you to go away?"

The muscles in my jaw tensed. It was a possibility I did not want to consider, but had to. "If she can listen to what I have to say and still insist she'd be happiest without me—in a way I find completely believable and honest—then I will have to accept it. That's all there is to it."

Richard regarded me thoughtfully. "And it was Xavier of all people who sent you this way," he said.

"Yes." This fact seemed to trouble them all. "Why?"

"We think of him as family," explained Tom. "We've known him since Bridget was seventeen and he was twenty. It's just strange to us that he'd be involved in aiding and abetting the man—" He stopped short. "Well, her new boyfriend."

I knew what they were thinking, that I'd been the one to precipitate the divorce, despite what the public story was. "I did not break up their marriage," I said in defence of myself. "They had already made that decision without me."

I was suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling that I had made a terrible mistake coming to her family home, invading her place of safety and security; what if she thought my plan was to work my way into her family by winning over her father and brothers to my side? It had never been my intention…

"Look, I should leave," I said, rising to my feet. "I'm staying at the Blue Angel. If you could at least tell her I'm here—"

I stopped because I could hear the lock on the front door click, the knob twist open. "Side trip to DiCamillo's before they closed!" called out a female voice I didn't recognise; it must have been her mother Betty. "Who wants toast?"

Then she came into the sitting room where the four of us were.

"Oh!" said Betty.

"Mark."

The latter was Bridget herself, following close to her mother. She'd gone white as a sheet.

"I'm sorry, I was just going," I said, slipping past the two women for where I'd hung my coat.

"Mark? _London_ Mark?"

If not for the circumstance I might have started to chuckle at the nicknames they'd given me: English Mark, That Mark, London Mark. "Yes, ma'am." I reached for my overcoat, slipped it on. "Good night."

I reached for the doorknob, turned it.

"Wait," Bridget said. I looked to her. She was obviously distraught. "Why are you here?"

"Bridget, why do you think he's here?" said her mother with a smile. She looked so much like her daughter might look in thirty years' time it broke my heart to think I might not be around to see her then: dark blonde hair going silver, blue eyes with generous laugh lines in the corners, open and warm and generally happy. She hadn't even needed to hear me plead my case to speak kindly to me. "Mark, stay for some toast and tea. This is the very best bread, bar none."

"I don't think I should," I said, meeting Bridget's eyes.

"I insist." Her father, calling from the sitting room. Without another word, he rose, passed us in the entryway, heading off to what I presumed was the kitchen. Betty, Tom and Jude followed, leaving Bridget and me on our own.

"How did you know where—oh, Xavier," she said, the light dawning. "He told you, didn't he?"

"Yes."

She looked up at me, brows slightly knit. "Well, you're stuck here having some toast now. Might as well take your coat off." She went into the sitting room. I did as she suggested then joined her.

"Believe me when I say I only meant to come and see you," I said, sitting in a chair that put me diagonally facing her. "I wasn't trying to… wage a guerrilla campaign with your family. It's just that… you wouldn't take my call."

"I thought I made my feelings clear," she said quietly.

"No," I said sharply. She looked at me querulously, and a little startled. This was my chance to plead my case. "You told me what you thought you needed to say to get me to go away, and I didn't argue because I thought what you really needed was some space. I didn't expect you to cut me out of your life altogether." I took in a breath. She broke the gaze, looked to her hands. "Bridget, I don't buy for a second that you no longer have feelings for me. You may be a good actress, but you're lousy at hiding that." She still did not look at me. "You don't have to protect me, my career, my life in London. I'm perfectly capable of looking out for myself; I've thought about it long and hard, I can work just about anywhere… and what I want is to be with you. Besides, what good is any of it—my work, my house—without someone to love? Without you?"

"Your family," she offered. "I can't take you away from them."

"It's true that my parents aren't keen on me living a half a world away from them," I said. "but they also want me to be happy, and that's what you do. Make me happy."

I saw a tear drop down onto her folded hands. "You're right. I _am_ lousy at hiding it," she admitted, looking at me at last. I reached and brushed the tears from her cheek. She closed her eyes, though her expression still looked pained. "I'm sorry," she whispered, then began to cry, bringing her hands to her face.

I got down on my knees directly in front of her chair and wrapped my arms around her. "It's all right, darling," I murmured.

"It isn't," she lamented. "I caused both of us such unnecessary pain."

"The thing about loving someone," I said gently, "is how easy it is to forgive them."

She sobbed and laughed at the same instant, then put her arms around my neck.

"Toast!" called Betty from the back of the house. We broke apart from our hug and laughed. I got to my feet and pulled her to hers, taking her in my arms for a proper embrace, holding her tight. I was elated. I had never imagined it would be this easy.

"When did you get here?" she asked.

"About ten minutes before you came back."

"No, I meant here. In Lewiston."

"Sometime early this afternoon," I said. "I went to the bed and breakfast to check in, had a short nap, had something to eat." I felt embarrassed as I admitted, "I hadn't intended on doing anything but drive by tonight."

"I'm glad you came in," she said, as she led me by the hand to the kitchen. "I wouldn't have enjoyed my toast nearly as much without you."

I was ushered to a place at the table next to Bridget, given a cup of hot black tea with plenty of milk and sugar—not my favourite, particularly in the typically weaker American tea blends, but I wasn't going to be rude—and a plate heaped with slices of buttered toast. I had to admit that the toast was very tasty; part of it could have also been that the most I'd had to eat today was a mealy pre-packaged sandwich from a corner market.

"What do you think, Mark?" Betty asked.

I nodded. "Delicious."

"I miss this bread _so much_ when I'm in LA," said Bridget, picking up a slice and taking a great big bite. I just about choked on my tea; it was not a particularly ladylike action.

"I hope the tea's okay," said Betty.

I pulled the teabag out of the mug. "It's fine."

"So everything's patched up?" Tom asked.

This time I did choke on my tea. Bridget answered for us as she patted my back. "Yes."

"Good," said her father. "Now let's stop trying to kill the man. Between what I've heard and what I've seen, I'm growing rather fond of him."

I felt quite pleased with myself.

Her family asked about the flight, asked a bit more about what my work entailed, and we generally had a very nice time. I felt quite satiated by the buttered toast and tea; I actually felt a bit sleepy.

I heard someone come into the house, which perplexed me, because as far as I knew, her family was accounted for. "We're in here," called Jude.

"Auntie Bridget!"

Into the room came a table-high flash of lightning, one which glommed onto Bridget's leg and hugged tight. "My favourite little man," she said, pulling him up onto her lap and giving him a tight hug. "Mmm, I so need to recharge on you!" He giggled and buried his curly-haired head into her shoulder.

A woman that I presumed was this boy's mother stood at the kitchen door; the presumption was confirmed when Betty asked how the birthday party had been that she'd taken him to. Her name was evidently Allison, his was Connor, and Allison happily detailed to Betty everything that had occurred at this birthday party for one of Connor's little friends.

Connor turned his head, noticed I was there, and stared hard at the strange man sitting beside him.

"Hi," I said to him, offering a smile.

"Oh, Connor," said Bridget, pushing him to sit up. "Allie. This is Mark."

"Mark…" Allie had long wavy reddish-brown hair, hazel eyes, and was very pretty. I wondered to which brother she was partnered. "Oh! Lawyer Mark, from England!"

At this I did chuckle outright. I stood and offered my hand to her. "Yes," I confirmed.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend," she said, turning bright red as she accepted the handshake.

"No, I'm not offended," I said. "Just amused."

"Mark, this is Jude's wife Allie. _And_ my adorable little nephew Connor."

"I'm four," declared Connor, then added with a furrowed brow, "You talk weird." Everyone laughed but tried to stifle it.

"Mark is from England," said Bridget to Connor, smiling a little as her gaze flitted up to me. "I met him when I was there. Remember before when I had to talk like that, and be far away for work?"

He nodded, shaking those curls of his to and fro. "Over the ocean. Is… Engle-land close by where Uncle X comes from?"

"Yes," said Bridget patiently. "Actually, it is close by."

"Why isn't he here too? I miss him."

I felt very, very self-conscious.

"We talked about that already, little man," said Bridget, running her hand over his head. "Uncle X and Auntie B don't live together now like your mommy and daddy do. He still loves you though, and he always will."

"Can we call him?"

Bridget met my gaze again. I nodded. "Sure, sweetie," she said. "You know where my phone is, right? In my purse?" He nodded, then jumped down and ran out of the room.

"We'll make it fast, I promise," said Bridget to Allie, then turned to me. "Mark, I'm sorry about that."

"It's all right. He's a curious child with questions. No point in not answering them."

In the meantime, Allie had taken a seat in the chair her husband had vacated for her and Betty had made her a few slices of toast of her own, serving them with a glass of juice. She looked a little tired; with a child as boisterous as Connor, it was hardly unexpected. She met my eyes. I smiled at her then reached to finish my tea.

Connor was back in no time flat with Bridget's mobile. She punched a few buttons and within a few moment evidently got Xavier on the line. "Connor wanted to say hi," she said to Xavier. Connor was jumping up and down, straining to reach the mobile. After a beat, her eyes flashed to me again. "Not much else is up, except, well… I got an unexpected visitor today." She blinked in surprise. "Yes. How did you know he was already here?" She grinned. "I suppose I should have guessed… well, Connor's climbing me like a tree. Here he is."

Connor took the mobile with both hands and a look of glee. "Uncle X! Are you in LA?" he asked as he ran towards his mother.

I felt Bridget place her hand on where mine rested on my knee. "He was the one who suggested you come?" she asked me quietly.

"Yes," I said.

She smiled. I saw her tear up again.

"Don't you dare apologise," I scolded with a smile. She laughed. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be alone with her.

As Connor concluded his call, he brought the phone back to his aunt, then Jude, Allie and Connor said their goodbyes and goodnights before filing out, followed shortly by Tom. "I have an early lesson in the morning," he explained. "Mark, a pleasure to meet you." He offered a hand for me to shake, and I accepted it.

"There isn't much to do around these parts," said Betty. "We don't have as much going on as LA or London, but I don't think there's anything wrong with a walk or a drive." Bless her soul, she was suggesting we go out together. Alone.

"I'm up for it if you are," she said, looking at me. "I'm not the one who flew over an ocean."

I nodded. "Well, not today, anyway."

"Don't wait up," Bridget said playfully as she picked up her purse and I put my coat on.

"Bye, darling," they called in return.

We were met by the brisk autumnal air. "What'll it be?" I asked.

"The biggest thing around here is… well… the Falls."

I turned my eyes to her. "I'm not really interested in sightseeing," I said quietly.

She smiled almost bashfully. "Me, neither. Besides, the Falls aren't going anywhere."

I took her hand, led her to my rental car. "How about if you come and tell me what you think of my room at the bed and breakfast?"

I could hear a quiet little chuckle. "Okay."

As I drove, following the GPS unit's instructions back to where I was staying, she asked, "So how long are you here?"

"For the week, at least."

"You have to stay through my birthday," she said. "I mean, if you can."

"Your birthday?"

"Next Tuesday."

I smiled. "Wouldn't dream of missing it," I said.

We didn't say anything more until we got to my room, and even then we didn't speak with words. It was only afterward, in the still of the night and the dark of the room, that she asked me what would happen next. I told her I wasn't entirely sure, but I was certain I would find plenty to do in Los Angeles professionally.

"If we need a change of scenery," I said, kissing the hair just at her temple, "London has plenty of theatres and, as you've seen, film studios."

She sighed. It was the happiest sound I think I'd ever heard, at least until I made one of my own.

Epilogue

It was very strange to spend Christmas Day breakfast outside by a swimming pool in the sunshine (well, under a patio umbrella) with nothing on but swim trunks. We had just fixed a late breakfast for ourselves; I did the eggs and bacon, and Bridget was responsible for the toast, which she brought out in a hurry in a covered basket, a butter dish in her other hand. We were partaking of her favourite bread from her hometown, shipped with many Xs and Os from her mother.

"Here you go," she said. "Get it buttered before it cools off."

I have never quite understood the American habit of piping hot toast at breakfast, but she insisted on bringing it this way every time we had toast in the morning. "You do know, Bridget, that the English don't do hot toast for breakfast, only for tea," I said. I was the brownest I think I'd ever been, which wasn't really saying much. I supposed the novelty of constant sunshine would wear off eventually.

"I'm not researching a role anymore," she retorted, smiling at me from behind her pink sunglasses, "and you're not in England."

"Too right," I said. I supposed also that I would learn to like hot buttered toast for breakfast. "I'll have to insist on the toast rack when we're back in old Blighty."

She smiled, returning to her magazine. "Deal."

I sipped my coffee, ate my breakfast while reading the London _Times_. We had already spoken to my family and hers, eight and three hours ahead of us on the clock respectively, but the most enjoyable call had to be with little Connor. Nothing's quite as smile-inducing as a child so excited about his gifts on Christmas morning to the point of incoherence. We had a busy week in front of us; we'd be leaving on Sunday night for London for the premiere of _Double Take_ that following Wednesday. We could stay in my house, which I had decided to retain for just such occasions. The film premiere was to be our first public appearance after our engagement.

That reminded me of a task left undone.

I lowered the newspaper down just as she was rising for more coffee. "Want some more?" she asked, reaching for her cup.

"Yes, please," I said. "Oh, and I'm fancying that strawberry jam from my mother on this toast. If you could get that for me out of the fridge, I would appreciate it."

"Oh, sure."

She went inside. I carefully closed and folded up the paper, waited for the shriek I thought was sure to come. It didn't. Instead, she came out sans sunglasses, holding in her hand what I'd hoped she'd find: the little velvet clamshell box I'd planted in the bin where we kept the jams.

"Mark," she said breathlessly; her eyes were wide. "What's this?"

"What do you think it is?" I got to my feet, took the box in my hand, and pulled it open to reveal its contents.

She gasped. "Oh my God."

"Marry me, Bridget," I said, taking the ring from the box, holding my hand out for hers. I saw her lips start to tremble, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, but she was smiling. I did not doubt what her answer would be for a moment. "I love you and want you to be my wife." With a smile I added, "How am I supposed to get my green card otherwise?"

She burst out with a laugh. "You jerk," she said, threw her arms around me and kissed me; she nearly knocked the ring from my fingers in the process.

"Careful," I said. "If that ring goes into the pool, you're going in for it."

She pushed back and held up her hand. "On with it, then," she said with a sniff. I threaded the ring onto her finger before she tackled me with another hug. "Of course I'll marry you. I wouldn't let you get your green card with anyone else."

"Glad to hear it," I said, sliding my hands down over her own biscuit-browned skin. I liked the fact she was wearing a bikini even more than spending Christmas morning poolside in the sun. "What do you say to a dip in the water?" I murmured, grazing my fingernails down the valley of her spine.

"I say… 'last one in is a rotten egg'." She pushed herself away from me, tore off the wrap around her waist and sprinted the few feet to the pool, jumping in; I was hot on her heels. When we surfaced we were both laughing, then embracing, then kissing. We might not have had the paddling pool in Grafton Underwood during childhood years ago, but I thought this was infinitely better.

It was a far cry from a year ago, with cold London snow, grey skies, miserable loneliness, nary a smile to be found and nothing but work to occupy my days. I wouldn't have it any other way.

_The end._


End file.
